It all started in mid-July ...
My eyes were instantly wide open as I bolted upright. Sweat dripped down my cheek as I forced a breath out through a tight chest. This was the fourth time it had happened. My dreams were being governed by science and logic. No longer was I the super hero, star athlete or debonair spy no woman could resist. It seemed I was condemned to romanticize about calling 911, being fifth-string field-goal kicker or getting sued for sexual harassment.
The warning signs had been there. For a while I had done nothing but wear sweat pants and a hooded sweatshirt and watch C-Span. I knew something was wrong, something was off. The world looked, smelled and tasted grey. But it wasn't until a good friend confronted me that I finally saw through the haze.
\Eric, um, I don't know how to say this, but everyone is worried.""
I stared blankly back at him, ""You know, Brats doesn't even have a Fluid Research Department, that t-shirt is blatantly in error.""
He glanced downward, brow furrowing slightly as he glanced at his State Street Brats promotional/drink special t-shirt.
""Riiiiiiight. See, that's what I'm talking about. I don't want to alarm you or offend you or anything, but, the thing is, you've, well... you've become boring.""
And that's when it finally clicked. It didn't hit me like a sack of bricks; it wasn't even like two sacks of bricks. No, it was a three-brick-sack revelation. I had become-well, boring!
When did this happen? I thought I was cool, living each day to the fullest, riding the stallion of life with the wind whipping through my hair. Who switched my stallion with a geriatric mule? Boredom's clammy hand had gotten a grip on my life, holding on with tendrils of lethargy, contentment and monotony.
It was time to fight back. I opened my bedroom curtains and tensed against the sunlight. It has been a while old friend, I thought as I squinted. Beneath a pile of homework I found my tennis racket, roller blades and board shorts. Under my bed I was discovered a stash of library books from when I used to ""read for fun."" My disc golf discs turned up inside my mini-fridge. All of these went in a duffle bag and I headed out the front door.
At first, I simply went through the motions, everything felt awkward. Slowly, gradually, with time, persistence and friends questioning the gender of my throwing arm, all my old skills came back. And with those skills, the world was flush with color once again.
It had been frightening for a while. Doctor's said I ""was in a rut"" but also said not to worry since it could happen to anyone. TO ANYONE?!?! I can't believe he'd be so na??ve as to tell me not to worry about this. I must warn everyone; be careful of ruts, of patterns, of same-old same-old. I barely came away with my lifestyle.
The past still haunts me, but so far I haven't shown signs of regression. With classes, homework and a closer familiarity with Wendt's basement stacks than my bed, the problem exists as much today as ever. For now, though, I'll be able to get back to the reason I'm here at college: to sit in lecture and day dream about single-handedly taking on the entire army of ninjas to save the girl I'll never have the guts to ask out.
