Not really, I’m not.
And if I were, I’d die before I ever admitted to it.
I grew up being told only boring people are bored.
There was such a stigma attached to being boring that I’d have rather been the poor trash down the road than be the boring girl on the corner, because at least the poor trash had a story to tell.
The common response to “I’m bored” was “you better find something to do or I’ll find you something.”
Except once. I told my grandmother, my dear, practical grandmother with the sharp tongue, I was bored and she turned around and put her square hands on the kitchen table and looked me right in the eye and said, “Lamebrain.”
Then she turned back to her cake making without another word.
That cured me quick-fashion of my boredom, because the very last thing I wanted was my grandmother thinking I was stupid.
I don’t think since then I’ve uttered the words, “I’m bored,” nor do I think I’ve let myself get bored. I always have something to read or some paper I can make a list on or some knitting or something I can do, because I don’t ever want to feel that way again – like I can’t come up with something to occupy my mind.
So find something to do with your time, or I’ll find you something to do with it.