One quiet evening on a visit to Huntington I was sitting at the Rusty Dog with a friend of mine. We were discussing life’s pains and the things that drive us. I knew that she had started attending dance classes in Fort Wayne. She humbly told me that she knew she wasn’t very good, but she knew that if she wasn’t dancing somehow she just wouldn’t be able to survive. I had remarked how brave I thought she was. Going up there to this class every week where she simply did not know anyone. And all I could think was, “Good for you.”
Until, I got away from the conversation and all I could think was, “what the heck drives me that way?” I enjoy theatre. I enjoy comedy. I enjoy writing. I enjoy painting. But none of them so much that my life would explode if I did not have them. I used to think it was the case with theatre, but I’m really doing quite alright without it. So what is it? I’m not really passionate about anything. I’m not really driven by anything.
I don’t adore myself enough, or pine for the approval of my words enough, to pursue any sort of stand-up comedy. Sit-down comedy maybe, but only because I’m lazy and I have little feet. I write all day for work, perhaps not the most uplifting material or what I enjoy really, but it’s enough to satisfy any slight “need.”
I thought about taking some art classes. I even looked into it briefly, before I got horrified by prices or the insistence on having a child. If you want an inexpensive, but still quite acceptable class you take it with your child, which makes it less…inviting or really probably challenging. If you want a challenging class for adults you shell out more money than one’s bank account could possibly afford. An art class would be a seemingly appropriate way to meet new people with similar, slightly douchey interests, while simultaneously challenging myself and improving my meager skill.
As it is the benefits do not outweigh the cost.
I’ve looked into getting involved in helping with area children’s theatres, but their mission statements almost always infuriate me. Some of them so blatantly suggesting that they would prefer to only foster a love of theatre in those they think most worthy of it. They’re kids; let them play.
At the end of all of it, though, there’s nothing in me that requires something so beautifully as the way my friend needed dance. And when I’m honest about it, I’m disappointed in myself for caring so little about so very much. Passionless living. I disturb even my own heart with it. It takes me to a place that feels a lot like mediocrity in many areas. An unfocused emptiness. Or perhaps better a driveless focus. A regular Jane of no trades. Settling for average, or more often, less than average quality in many areas, none of which are excelled in. It’s a little, if not entirely, shattering every time I realize how truly passionless I am.