It’s easy to take for granted the way
the phosphorescence of solitude
ignites a thousand poems.
Not all of them good, of course.
In truth and hindsight,
most were un-notably awful
and overly enamored of lank-haired boys
who didn’t rate a reciprocal glance
much less a rhyming couplet.
The unremorseful exuberance
of so much twentyish angst is
Would now I could
dredge one bullion ounce
of such lyrical fervor.
-Lo, attempting a comeback.
I was reading and giggling aloud at Margaret Cho’s blog about her red leather super skinny jeans when I thought, “I remember when I wore leather pants.”
And then, quite suddenly, I was overcome with the undeniable knowledge that the-thing-which-you-dread-when-you’re-23 has finally happened to me.
I have officially become a boring person.
It’s true. I’m a baby-photo-posting, constantly-crumb-covered, 9pm-bedtime-having, blog-neglecting, non-red-leather-jean-wearing, still-post-pregnancy-dieting, always-a-little-bit-tired, ready-with-latest-cute-kid-antic-story, traded-in-my-motorcycle-for-a-scooter, perma-straightened-my-hair-since-I-don’t-have-time-to-do-anything-to-it, writer’s-block-afflicted, formerly occasionally cool person.
Might as well own it, eh?
-Lo, who realizes it’s better to be boring than bored. Because in this new version of my life, I am absolutely positively never ever bored.