on fun

and the time i learned i wasn't

I can tell you the exact moment I learned I wasn’t fun.

The year was 2016. I was at a friend’s house; at least, I thought we were friends. In retrospect I can see it was more a relationship negotiated between two lonely mothers looking for someone they could tolerate while their toddlers passed the endlessly long mornings before naptime. When you’re in college, you have bosom buddies like Anne Shirley; when you’re an adult, you settle for the barely tolerable à la Elizabeth Bennet.

On the ill-fated day, my legs were stretched out on the hardwood floor of Tolerable’s playroom, “mmhmm-ing” a lazy acknowledgement that I was listening to the words coming out of her mouth. The subject was someone she knew who did things, things neither requisite nor by definition productive; things she just wanted to do, for the pleasure of doing them. Must be nice, thinking about nothing but yourself all day, I thought sardonically, fantasizing about shoving a Bonbon up this lady’s ass. Instead I’d closed my eyes so I could roll them undetected.

“I need a fun friend,” Tolerable observed.

I looked at her. Blinked. Waited.

She looked at me. Sighed. Shrugged.

I realized in horror that she was waiting for me to agree with her, to join in the great cacophony of women bemoaning the lack of voices who might convince us that life is still worth living. She wasn’t being mean or petty or looking to offend; she was making an honest-to-god bid for connection. She thought we could commiserate.

Oh my God I was as boring as she was.

Photo by Scott Webb on Unsplash

Was that the moment that turned my life around? Sadly, no. I went on to gestate and birth two more babies after that (no regrets!) and persevered in my secluded and monochrome existence (some regrets!) with only the occasional passing thought of that-one-time-that-one-woman-insinuated-that-I-was-not-fun, which is ridiculous because look at me, I’m painting my kitchen teal after all, is that something an unfun person would do? I DIDN’T THINK SO.

It would be seven years later, discharged from the hospital after recovering from appendicitis and septic shock, that I would find an imagination for a life of play. It wasn’t a meditated decision per se; there was no rationale or logic behind it. But as I healed, I noticed a sensation gaining slow but steady force within me, simple at first: an insatiability for music, for dancing in the kitchen, for wearing clothes I actually liked.

The first big milestone post-sepsis was my 40th birthday, and I celebrated by taking my two oldest kids and Eric to a Lizzo concert. Lizzo Beating — and I will go to the mat with you on this — is the queen of play. We had a great time, my kids learned to twerk, and I later got the pleasure of seeing other parents’ faces when I told them where we’d gone. Everyone won.

The pleasure monster was unleashed. From that point on, fun became one of my top priorities. I went to the Eras Tour with my bestie. I did a hilarious Taylor Swift-inspired professional photo shoot with a friend. I went to more concerts with people I love. I signed up for a dance class. I did a polar plunge with my teenager. I walked alone through the forest naked in the moonlight. I even got drunk once. (Which, I remembered from my college days, does not actually fall within the category of “fun.”)

There is still so much I want to do. I want to learn pottery, even though I suspect my lack of attention to detail will mean I’m terrible at it. I want to take a belly dancing class. I want to learn screenwriting. I want to try theater — and get my kids to do it beside me. I want to see a show at Red Rocks. I want to go to Paris.

I want, I want, I want. And the more I want, the more I realize we were designed to want. The wanting is the whole point.

When I explained this awakening to my editor and friend, he asked: “Do you feel like this is making you take yourself less seriously, or more seriously?”

The obvious answer, the one we’re accustomed to people articulating when they admit to doing frivolous things, is that it helps me take myself less seriously. Relax, little self! Take a load off. Here’s a bit of fun to remind you that the world is not being balanced between your shoulder blades.

But my friend knew that wasn’t the case for me. He knew I take everyone else more seriously than I take myself. He could see that for me, to ask myself what I want is an act of self-respect (even if the answer is that I want to dress up like Taylor Swift while holding chickens). For people like me, prioritizing our own play and pleasure and a dab of indulgence means we are taking ourselves more seriously, not less.

Now that’s a plot twist.

I’d love to hear your reflections in the comments. Does this ring true for you as well, or do you feel like you and I are opposites? How have you learned to honor the need for play in your life? How do you discern a healthy balance?

“Idea” by Kate Baer

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XOXO,

Shannon