Tell Me Of This Thing You Humans Call 'Fun'.

Daytona Beach is not logical.

Here’s a little tip about writing blog posts. Aside from the entire endeavor remaining an enormous waste of time that has no real benefits other than a little bit of writing practice, it helps to have an interesting take when you create one. Once you have your take, you have to judge whether or not the three or four people that might read it would care. Everyone has their own tastes, but no one really cares when the viewpoint is from that of a whiny little bitch. Struggles with mental illness, shyness, social anxiety…those are all worth detailing as long as it comes from a place of truth and not merely complaining. 

I’ve been trying to attack this subject for years and I have never been able to successfully crack it.  Every time I give it a go, it sounds whiny. Now, I think I’ve found my angle.  I’m not judging it; I’m simply admitting I am confused by the entire concept of fun.

Yes, fun.  That fun.  The fun we all crave in our lives and most of us have far too little of.  The thing kids can do at almost any time, but adults have to take steps to carve out time for.

I’ve been attempting to solve this riddle for about ten years now.  When my sons hit high school, I realized that daily parenting had loosened up a bit, and in a few short years, my kids were able to take care of their own business.  That left my wife and me with this thing called time to ourselves.  We still worked a lot and the kids weren’t all the way gone, but the time popped up every week.  It was now time to think about fun.

I can only speak for myself.  I suck at fun. I don’t know what I lacked as a child, but I wasn’t fun at all.  I went along with fun sometimes, but mostly I liked conversation and that’s about it.  I liked my free trips to Disney in Orlando, and I liked going to the park with my kids.  There.  There you go.  No parties or blowouts or raves.  No lost weekends or spring break bashes.  No trips round the world.  No fucked-up Friday nights and Saturday hangovers.  No skiing, boating, mountain climbing, hang-gliding, bungee jumping, softball, volleyball, or roller derby.

This is not me complaining.  This is me being truthful.  I sincerely didn’t give a shit at all.  I never felt the ‘fear of missing out’ that much, either. 

Here’s an example.  My mother secured a beach condo for a few days in the summer at New Smyrna Beach in Florida. She invited Amy, me and the kids, and my brother and his girlfriend for a few days of sun, surf, sand, and a big pool.  All I could remember is wanting to go back inside after an hour or so of bullshit beach stuff.  I wanted the air conditioning, shade, and a cool drink.  We talked about those trips recently and I said to my mother “Why can’t it just be that?  Why bother with all the hot sun and sand in your crotch?  Why not just hang out in the AC and chill?”

I imagine the same scenario with skiing here in Oregon.  I’d rather just curl up by the fire and read or something.  Maybe listen to music and watch the snow fall. 

I figured out why Amy and I don’t have fun. It’s a combination of time and money.  We’re still chasing after weekends off for both of us and having money at the same time is a rarity.  Now, those are actual reasons.  But truthfully, with those variables going our way, we still wouldn’t know what to do. We managed a trip last year to the San Francisco area and we basically slept in our Airbnb room and just went out to eat.  No Alcatraz, no Golden Gate Bridge.  We are so unaccustomed to fun that we don’t know what to do with it if fell in our laps. We also didn’t really care.  We had time together and caught up on sleep. Fun?  Didn’t really even think about it.

There is a pressure to have fun.  It’s in the culture, it’s in advertising, it’s all over social media.  I feel it and I do take it pretty hard.  I’m no spring chicken and I don’t have a lot of fun stories to share.  I also realize I’m taking cues from others on how to live my life and that always means trouble.  So, even at this age, I still don’t know what to do.

When I’m in my element, I seem fun and I have fun. I’m funny, I can relay a story and I like listening to others do the same.  That’s about it.  Most other fun makes me uncomfortable.  Mindless partying seems like it’s under the purview of the stupid. Sorry.  The run-of-the-mill having a drink with friends is nice, but I don’t drink and that’s a stickler for a lot of these situations.  If I wanted to go out and feel self-conscious about my choices in life…I wouldn’t.  I’d just stay the fuck home.  That leaves activities, which do pique my interest. A little more money and time and I think I can convince Amy to do a little hiking and camping, or a least a little glamping.

My confusion begins and ends in my brain.  This is something that I should have figured out thirty years ago, but it still feels foreign.  A combination of social anxiety, shyness, lack of experience…take your pick.  Once you hit your forties you should understand who you really are and what you really aren’t.  And I guess…I do not have a natural inclination to be fun.

And I’m not sure that I care.