Yesterday, Erin asked me to mow the lawn. It was the first time that we mowed this year so you can imagine how overgrown it was (we live in Kansas). As I was mowing, I remember thinking these several thoughts:
- Wow, our lawn looks really shitty!
- As shitty as our lawn looks, I really don't give a shit.
- I don't find meaningfulness in giving a shit about my lawn.
- I wish I had rocks for a lawn so I wouldn't have to mow and I could get back to doing things that are more meaningful to me.
- How does the guy with the immaculate lawn across the street find any kind of meaningfulness in giving a shit about his lawn?
I admit, the last takes am unnecessary jab at people who care for their lawns, which is completely fine. People find meaningfulness in different places.
Others would ask the same question about some of the things I find meaningful:
- Brewing my own beer.
- Roasting my own coffee. Every. Single. Week.
- Studying for the MLC Exam (If I pass this exam, it will not qualify me for a promotion in my current position. It gets me closer to a certification that will also not qualify me for a promotion in my current position.)
- Reading incessantly.
- Getting rid of shit.
- Going for a hike.
- Riding my bike.
- Journaling (who's going to read these in the future and give any kind of shit about them if they survive entropy or the Trump administration?)
- Writing in this blog.
These things are meaningful to me. Meaningful. This word has been floating around in my mind a lot. I let it dominate. Trying to figure out why things are meaningful will bring on the unnecessary ponderings of whether I'm having fun or am happy. To that, I will defer to Matt Inman's "How to be perfectly unhappy."