It’s become sort of a catchphrase in our lives together. “I don’t want to see this in a blog,” Carol will tell me from time to time. Something has happened that has made us both laugh, and usually out of embarrassment: a foible, a slight mishap or just something you’re glad no one else has witnessed. I guess I have a tendency to want to document those occurrences, and to make them available to the whole world. My promise not to put our frailties in a blog has been one honored more by its breach than adherence.

   We’ve both had a pretty uneventful week, so I won’t be violating Carol’s wishes here today. Instead, I’ll take this opportunity when there’s nothing at all to write about to ruminate a bit on why I feel that the ordinary, everyday events in life are somehow worth writing about in the first place.

   I’m more than halfway through this blog now. If you’re still reading, it means, first of all, that there’s two minutes or so of your life you’re never getting back.

   It’s not that I believe I possess some superior analytical or insightful skills that I can break down the mundane to discover some universal truth about human nature. I’m not attempting to answer Carol’s perennial question, “I don’t understand why you did/said/believe that,” because I truly don’t understand why I do/say/believe any of the things I do, say or believe. Or why I feel so compelled to report on one or more of Carol’s unguarded moments.

   I suppose the obvious conclusion is that I’m just looking for attention. But since solitude is my preferred state of being when I’m not required to be, I don’t think that accurately explains it. I write when it’s time to, so even though I hope what I write finds readers, it doesn’t seem to be a critical motivating factor to start. I am selfish and self-centered, and since writing is a selfish and self-centered act at its core, I guess that explains a lot of the drive.

   I’m more than halfway through this blog now. If you’re still reading, it means, first of all, that there’s two minutes or so of your life you’re never getting back. It also means that you’re still expecting me to surprise you with a point of some kind. Nothing could be further from my intentions. So you may stop reading now.

   Yet you’re still here. My six-year-old granddaughter parades through her house singing, delivering soliloquies, totally in a meaningless world of her own making, all the while completely ignoring everyone around her. She particularly does not want anyone observing her either, especially her Grandpa Annoying. I believe she embodies what I do when I write.

   So there it is. Writing for me is an active and engaged way of doing nothing. So if you do finish reading this entire blog, you have to ask yourself: what did I just do? If you come up with anything, let me know. It’ll incentivize me to do even less next time.

   (As I was composing this, Carol was cleaning out the silverware drawer. Who, in your opinion, accomplished more with their use of this time?

   Wrong answers only.)