Due to the COVID-19 pandemic, I, like many other people around the world, have been cooped up inside my house for the past week and want nothing more than to avoid thinking about the widespread disease. The problem is that it's quite difficult to avoid it when there seems to be a new negative development described in detail every time I go online. And while I do hope to write more uplifting things in the future, it's honestly been too tough to switch from my negative headspace to a creative one this week.
All weekend, I went back and forth about what to write for today's blog post. I initially thought I'd hop on here to share a comedic take of my homemade Panda Express experience from this weekend, which involved three failed batches of chicken batter and way too much ginger. But the more I thought about it, the more I realized that would require me to ignore the growing COVID-19 pandemic that is spreading worldwide...
It's tough to bring up international travel without sounding like that insufferable person at a party who can't stop bragging about their amazing trips or, even worse, a wannabe social media influencer. However, I am going to ignore the negative perception of travel stories because I want to share a peculiar one from my time in Bogotá, Colombia. It all began at a Colombian church's Thanksgiving dinner...
"You don’t know how to enjoy yourself. Americans, you work too hard; you get burned out. Then you come home and spend the whole weekend in your pajamas in front of the TV." I am well aware that starting a blog post with an Eat Pray Love quote all but admits that I am a middle-aged soccer Mom trapped in the body of a young man, but I couldn't resist since the quote perfectly ties into the theme of today's blog post.
Much to the initial surprise of many of my followers, I have quite the rural past which I have freely shared on this blog. These anecdotes have detailed my time spent working on a farm, throwing knives, and failing to emulate the murderer of Bambi's mother. Basically, I haven't always been the somewhat polished, dirt-averse individual most of my readers have come to know and tolerate, and today I'm going to add fuel to that fire by describing my time as a horse owner.
Disclaimer: This post is not going to be as soothing as The Great British Baking Show, so if you're looking for that genre, I'd suggest heading over to Netflix for your dose of accented people trying their hands at baking. Once you're done there, be sure to come back here for your fix of a non-accented person attempting to make an Americanized version of iconic baked goods.
In the spring of 2018, I wrote a post about (pardon my potential misuse of a football reference) calling an audible. Well, it's nearly two years later, and I find myself in a similar place: wanting to edit a few of the year's goals in addition to lacking even a basic understanding of sports terminology. So here's what I'm planning on changing:
One of my best friends visited me this weekend, and we reminisced about the time we did our best to shut down the use of an app on our college campus (and how we suppressed free speech in the process). The memory seemed pretty far fetched, so wanting to remember more of the details, I went back through my old journals and found an entry from August 2015 where I described our mission. In typical Most Boring Person fashion, I'm going to react to it:
If you've read my blog as far back as 2017, you'll know I haven't had the best of luck when it comes to getting my hair cut. Most notoriously was the disastrous haircut that spawned memorable lines like "...raking through my hair with the ferocity of a recently scorned girlfriend shredding her ex-boyfriend’s letter jacket" and "budget haircuts, like back-alley lobotomies, should be avoided at all costs." If you can't tell from reading those dramatic gems, I desperately hoped my terrible haircutting experiences were over. Unfortunately, that wasn't the case.
Many people who grew up in the Northeast probably remember the euphoria of rushing downstairs on a wintery weekday to discover that school had been canceled. I, on the other hand, remember quite the opposite: an anticlimactic feeling of trudging downstairs on a snowy school-day to sit at the dining room table and work on my assignments. The difference? Being homeschooled.