I’ve been reading a book on Richard Proenneke, on the advice of someone in one of the dog groups. To say that it’s not great literature is an understatement, but it’s a lovely story. It’s based on Proenneke’s journals and is told in diary format, which I obviously find compelling, despite the bad writing. I’m about half-way through it, and it occurred to me that I could just about be a hermit. It’s not that there aren’t people I like, and that I wouldn’t miss having a support system, but I think I would be pretty content with my own company.
And then, yesterday, a friend and I were talking about being irritated by people (she’s a departmental secretary, which is a thankless job). The cube farm was making me a little angsty, so I told her I’m ready to move to a deserted island. Oh, but seriously. She reckoned that I’d get bored, but I’m pretty sure that I’ve never been bored a day in my life.
She complains a lot about being bored, though, and I have to admit to not being terribly sympathetic. I just don’t understand the concept. I’ve suggested that, if she doesn’t like being bored, then maybe she should cultivate a hobby or twelve. She’s considered and rejected every hobby I can think of, though. Maybe she secretly enjoys being bored? In any event, it can’t be that tortuous, since she prefers it to doing just about anything.
red paper boat 