Yesterday, I met a friend for coffee and after the you-look-greats and it’s-been-too-longs, she asked what’s been going on in my life. I answered how I usually do: Nothing. My life is boring.
She said hers was the same, which I didn’t believe because she has a serious career, a brainiac husband, two dogs, and three cats.
As we caught up, it came out that in the past six months she and her husband have been to New York to be wooed and wowed by her agent and publisher (yeah, there’s that—in her spare time she writes well-advanced and -royaltied novels); vacationed in New Mexico for six weeks, she writing her third book, he working on something that could earn a nomination from the Nobel Prize committee (for reals); and made a couple of visits to her parents who live at the beach.
Me? I cleaned my refrigerator.
There are degrees of boring.
p.s. For all of my friend’s blessings and stations in life, she is one of the most genuine and funny people I know. Spending time with her is always a delight.