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The Virtue of a Boring Life
By Someone Who Used to Be Booked and Busy
There was a time – not so long ago, though it feels like a different life – when a weekend could carry the weight of an entire unlived existence.
Five days of back-to-back meetings, office air, and deadlines would compress into a pressure cooker, and then – like clockwork – Friday evening would swing open the door to freedom. And I? I’d live.
There were happy hours that spilled into dinners, movie nights with actual plotlines (and actual attention spans), and the ritual of self-care that involved serums, scrubs, and playlists curated with far too much intention. My dogs were my constant companions – blinking at me through bath steam and lounging next to laundry piles that smelled faintly of lavender and ambition.
And somehow, miraculously, I had energy. I’d wake up at 6 a.m. for a run, legs moving before doubts could catch up. Some weekends included packing for international trips – folding clothes neatly, printing itineraries, kissing my pups goodbye like we were in a Nancy Meyers film. I traveled light, loved hard, lived fast – and managed to text my friends throughout.
That was the rhythm of my thirties. Fast-paced, beautifully overstimulated, and always just a little bit overbooked.
