I call myself “boring” a lot.
“Yeah, I’m pretty boring,” or “My life is boring,” are phrases that come out of my mouth multiple times a day. At the very least.
But I’m not boring. I have a pixie cut for God’s sake. I am not boring.
I write every single day in a journal. I keep a book of quotes near my bed. Currently, I’m reading The Last of the Mohicans, The Age of Innocence, and several Longreads articles. I have an affinity for the cover Bastille did of TLC’s “No Scrubs” going around the Internet. Also, “Girls” by The 1975 is on replay. My favorite style blogger is Sami from Beautycrush. I’m currently performing informal research with an anthropology professor. I am thisclose to deleting my Facebook account.
So why do I keep calling myself boring?
Okay, I really don’t have an answer. Mostly because I’m not sure why I bring myself down like that. Maybe it’s because we get so caught up in life that we don’t notice how interesting we are as human beings. Or maybe it’s because I don’t appreciate my own interests enough, or value them. It can be so easy to think that because your life doesn’t look like something out of your favorite blog that it’s not worth talking about. At least, that’s something I can admit that I struggle with. In truth, my life’s pretty damn awesome, with my yoga periodicals and patterned notebooks (and Lucky‘s September issue, helloooo girl crush, Dakota Fanning).
Long story short, I’m not boring. I’m actually exciting, just in my own slightly-old-ladyish- way. We’re all exciting in our own way. If we weren’t, wouldn’t this world be such a boring place? (See what I did there?)
P.S. the French word for “boring” is “ennuyeux” which is a decidedly un-boring word.