boredom.

There are certain things about life that I don’t and may never understand—things like soul patches and pelvis fat and glitter and vampire-themed entertainment. But perhaps foremost of those things which I lack the mental dexterity to grasp is boredom. I’m not even certain that I’ve ever experienced the state of mind to which people refer when speaking of “boredom.” There is just too much stuff I want to do. There’s always a book to read, a song to write, a nearby napkin upon which I can doodle an offensively exaggerated portrait of whomever it is that I happen to be with, or a minute aspect of existence which begs to be analyzed in excruciating detail (fire, cake cups, hugs, et cetera).

But let’s say that all that stuff evaporated in a flash, was transported to another dimension from which it could not be reclaimed; I still wouldn’t be bored. I’d simply resort to my list of just-for-the-heck-of-it activities, which I’ve been accumulating for years. One such activity I occasionally utilize in the passing of time requires a trip to Wal-Mart. You think the old folk greeters at that particular big box establishment are all smiles and white hair and creepy questions about your kids, but in reality, they are the Walton’s last line of defense against shoplifting. So one way to spice up an otherwise drab afternoon is to, like I said, go to Wal-Mart. Once there, select any item (preferably something small and light). Pay at the register and insist on foregoing the plastic bag, but double check to take and safely stow your receipt in a trustworthy pocket. Once you’ve got the product in hand, place it under your shirt or in a pocket in such a way as to create an obvious bulge. Walk towards the exit. When the drooping and sun-spotted neck flesh of the greeter draws your sight, causing you to draw all sorts of silent comparisons to chicken skin, pan your view up a few inches to make eye contact with the greeter. But make sure that it's uncomfortable eye contact, the accidentally-shared-between-elementary-school-crushes type of hyper self-conscious eye contact. As soon as you feel confident that the greeter has noticed you, run. Break out into a full sprint. Pump those knees and flee as if from a burning building, without even stopping to get the cat. You can bet your socks that at that moment the greeter will put his at least seven-decade-old bones into motion in hot pursuit of what he perceives to be a shoplifter.

Now, I ask you, is there any situation so boring that an impromptu footrace with a senior citizen across the parking lot of a Wal-Mart wouldn’t effectively banish from you any lingering sense of tedium? I think not.