As you read this (or, more realistically, as you pass this up completely to laugh at the stripper classifieds in the back of the paper,) I will be finishing up what has arguably been the worst, most frustrating week of my life.
Ah, sounds interesting doesn’t it? Well, actually, it was amazingly boring.
I don’t too much feel like rehashing the events that caused this week to be so (insert preferred synonym for “fecal” here). I’ve managed to calm down and my rage is currently napping, nestled snugly between my imagination and my inferiority complex. But the boredom, now that’s something worth talking about.
The cause of all this boredom lies in two simple words: Dust Bowl. In between my profanity-laced explosions and my bouts with a twitching eye I had to force my self to sit still long enough to read a 240-page book about dirt.
Yes, dirt.
More often than not, I would rather read than do most anything else. And, more often than not, the exception to that rule comes as a direct result of being enrolled in a history class.
It looked like my luck would change this semester after I thoroughly enjoyed our first assigned book. But, no, now I have to read the Big Book of Dirt.
I thought about finding a way to break up the monotony, but then I remembered the last time I got so bored I decided to do something about it. Last year, in a flash of genius, I decided that I would make things more interesting around my house by seeing what a lit match smelled like.
Yes, it does get that boring in my hometown of Minden. No, I didn’t know nose hair was that flammable.
There was quite a little flair as an ill-timed inhalation caused my left nostril to combust. The fire was extinguished before it had the chance to cause any brain damage – which is still a point of contention between my family and me – but I smelled pecans for two weeks.
With that little experience burned into my memory (get it?), I decided just to battle the boredom by griping about it to everyone I know. After hearing enough of my whining, my friend Michael offered some perspective.
“It could be worse,” he said. “You could be watching paint dry.”
Hmmmm, watching paint dry. Interesting. I decided to give it a shot the next day.
As luck would have it, the Louisiana Department of Labor, where I am currently employed, is undergoing a face-lift.
Your tax dollars are turning walls that could best be described as pancreatic-fluid green into a lovely Angola-Prison gray. It gives it that cheery, life-sentence feel.
After I got to work and had my standard three cups of coffee, I decided to get started. I went up to the third floor, the day’s designated painting locale. I pulled up a chair and stared at the wall intently. About two hours later, my supervisor finally located me.
“Seth, what are you doing?”
“Watching the paint dry, sir.”
“Son, do we pay you to watch the paint dry?”
“Well, sort of, if you think about it,” I replied. “Every two weeks I pay taxes from my paycheck back to the state. Well, two weeks later, the state takes those taxes and pays them to me as my wages. I, in return, give them back more money. I practically pay my own salary. And, yes, I pay me to watch the paint dry.”
“Mind if I pull up a chair?”
We spent the next two hours watching the paint dry and talking about lots of neat things. He offered to impart some of the knowledge he had acquired throughout the years. He told me I could ask him anything.
“Did Elvis keep velvet pictures of trailor parks on his wall?” I asked.
His head spun around really fast then exploded.
Then again, maybe the paint fumes were getting to me.