the ocean

I am struggling more and more to come up with things to write about here, and I'm not sure why. I mean, yes, my life is relatively uninteresting, but hasn't it always been? It's not like I used to be a backup dancer for Madonna or Hillary Clinton's lesbian life partner (or both) or anything. I'm still in the same straightforward and largely not for disclosure profession I've been in for twenty plus years, and I'm still married to the same dude I've been with for more than a decade. I guess I do spend less time "out on the town," as no one says, than I used to, but it's not like I remembered most of that to write about it, anyway. I'm certainly not watching less television or doing fewer stupid things than I did back in the day.

Case in point: I was in my friend's wedding last weekend and, after two days of being friendly with strangers and taking photos for hours with only a Walgreen's sandwich for sustenance, I decided to practice some intoxication. And I ended up giving the Uber driver a combination of my current address and the address I lived at three years ago, realizing I hadn't brought my keys and could not remember the code for the back door that I enter literally every day of my life, and having to wake Ian up to let me in in the dead of night. 

Oh yeah, so maybe that's the shit I should write about. Except I just did. And it's not like I had anything funny to say about it, other than the fact that it happened. 

Should I start recapping old episodes of "Caroline in the City" or something? Only issue is that I would then have to actually watch old episodes of "Caroline in the City."

Actually having a reason for being is such a high bar for a blog...