boring.

That's how I've been feeling lately.

I've felt it when posting on facebook, not having much to say other than how tired I am or that I cooked something for once.  I feel it all the time when blogging, sometimes sitting there wondering if I even have anything interesting to write about, and other times looking at recent posts and seeing how pathetic some of the things are that I consider post-worthy.  Eggs.  Honestly?

I can't figure out if I'm depressed about my boring life or not.  I know that I'm certainly insecure about it, possibly even a bit sensitive.  As though my self-worth depends on how many people comment on my facebook statuses.  I'm not used to being so concerned with what people think.  Maybe it's the pressure of cultural ideals for people like me -- young, single girls ought to be out having fun and flirting with guys and making lunch dates with other young, fashionable, successful people.

I'm a teacher, folks.  I hang out with eleven- and twelve-year-olds all day, some of whom have poor personal hygiene, others who are hyperactive and obnoxious, a few who are unnervingly clingy.  I can't do lunch dates.  You know, that was my favorite part of college.  Out of every single experience I had at my top-tier university full of opportunities of every kind, my favorite part was going to lunch with people throughout the week.  I liked sitting and talking with my friends, saying hello to those who rushed by or stopped and talked, and even forming friendships with the employees who worked at the eateries I frequented.

It's strange, but it's almost like I feel like I'm "destined" for a life of a full social calendar, frequent concerts and artsy outings (Speaking of which, I was looking through one of those area activity papers the other day, the kinds of things that are free outside grocery stores, and I saw two out of about twenty-five gigs I'd like to see...then noticed that both were to take place at a bar/restaurant in town that has a strict dress code thanks to gang activity.), the ability to decorate and bargain shop and volunteer at community centers, shop at organic stores and farmers' markets and sit in coffee shops and read books without feeling like I ought to be doing something else.

I read a book today for an extended period of time.  I've done that three times since the summer.  Three times.  In six months.  Part of that's my own fault for being impatient and not being able to finish a book (my count's up to eight unfinished books now), but a lot of it is that I don't have the energy or desire to do much more than watch television or listen to music when I get home from work.  I love my work -- I don't want to misrepresent myself and act like I don't enjoy what I do -- but teaching is a draining job.  I think, though, that no matter what my job were, I would still have ended up this boring woman who lives on fast food and black beans, who has nineteen television series set to record regularly, and who doesn't move from underneath her electric blanket in the winter and talks to her plants in the summer.

In fact, I feel like the summer is the only time when I actually start to be who I want to be.  I travel and cook and tend my plants, hanging out with friends and allowing myself to be spontaneous.  But what's sad is that whenever I'm home during the summer, I'm right back on the couch.  Being boring.  Because that's who I've become.

Please tell me this is just a phase.  Please tell me it's not a regular part of adulthood, and that I have hope of becoming interesting and involved again soon.

I simply don't know what I'd do if I thought I'd have to be boring forever.  That just...ugh, it gives me the shiver-creeps.  I'm not okay with that.