I’m not an adrenalin junkie or a world traveler or a powerful politician. This means the story of my life is considerably less interesting. It consists of a few slightly humorous moments interspersed amongst the daily slog of waking up, working at a computer all day, coming home, watching TV, talking to my roommates, maybe doing some laundry. There goes any readers who may have just happened by…this is going to get interesting soon, I swear.
Have you ever noticed how when people mutter “story of my life” it’s never in response to something good? Nobody ever hears about a coworker getting a promotion and says “Oh yeah, that’s the story of my life.” Only after someone complains about the vending machine eating their dollar does everybody chime in about how that event does in fact encapsulate their existence quite nicely.
Here’s the story of my life most days: This morning I missed the door and tried to walk into my office through the wall. Today I spent an hour trying to come up with witty comments for a Facebook album of photos from my company’s bowling party. Tonight I watched 4 hours of this 90’s TV show before realizing how frighteningly bad it really is.
The problem is, I love telling stories. Sometimes I’ll be right in the middle of some really (rare) cool life moment and instead of reveling in the joy, I’m thinking I wonder how I should phrase this part of the story when I tell Mom. This is actually fitting since the only person who’s going to read this blog is the lovely lady who gave birth to me.
So this is the story of my life. Like 50 million other blogs out there, except more odd. More tangential. With much more babbling.