Well, here I am. Seventy-two years young, recently divorced after a marathon 36-year marriage, and finally free to settle into my inevitable, profound dullness. My ex-husband made it quite clear that my life, filled with quiet, productive pursuits, was a source of intense irritation—a lack of spark he thankfully no longer has to endure.

And I must agree with him. I mean, look at the evidence!

A Catalog of Crimes Against Excitement

My life is a continuous catalog of dull crimes:

• Handicraft Hypnosis: I knit. I sew. I do pottery, producing pieces that, according to my former spouse, resemble kindergarten projects. I prefer the term “folk art,” but what can you expect from a retired elementary school teacher? (We all know teachers are the ultimate pinnacle of boredom.)

• Domestic Drudgery: My kitchen is a perpetual disaster zone of baking, canning, and gardening. I preserve food. I grow things. This is the definition of predictability.

• Architectural Audacity (of Boredom): I built a cob oven outside. Yes, I constructed a magnificent, earthen structure for making wood-fired pizza and other dull delights. I am so thrillingly unexciting that when I use it, I often singe my hair and eyebrows—a simple combustion hazard that clearly fails to entertain.

The Wildlife and the Woof

Even the wildlife I attract is bored by my presence. I live on a busy main road in Seacoast New Hampshire—a location promising drama! I’ve hosted black bears, moose, deer, foxes, coyotes, skunks, groundhogs, and even a bobcat! And yet, they all ignore me completely (though they pay keen, non-dull attention to my chickens).

My dog, bless his sweet, incredibly dull heart, is the most even-tempered creature alive. He doesn’t even chase the chickens—the ultimate betrayal of canine excitement. My parakeets, finding their existence so utterly devoid of excitement, resorted to laying two nests of eggs and raising nine babies, purely as a self-directed coping mechanism for the surrounding mediocrity.

The Uniformity of Survival

Now that I’m divorced, I fully anticipate settling even more firmly into this deep, satisfying dullness. I shall wear my size 7 1/2 shoes—a popular, universally accepted, and therefore deeply dull size—and I shall eat my daily, exceedingly unimaginative banana.

But let me tell you a secret: This supposed dullness? It is not a deficit. It is a delight.

My life is built, piece by quiet piece, by my own hands. I heat the oven, I get the singes, I tend the soil. I create something from nothing. If calling this life dull means I am living fully, deeply, and honestly on my own terms—surrounded by fuzzy animals, fire-breathing ovens, and the satisfaction of a full freezer—then I welcome the title.

The most exciting thing I can do now is embrace the deep, radical joy of being exactly who I am. And I promise you, dear reader: the second chapter of my life, built on folk art, cob oven mastery, and the glorious company of quiet dogs, will be wonderfully, unequivocally dull.

And I wouldn’t have it any other way.