I think most of us are pretty sure we lead boring lives. Or, worse, that our lives won't mean much, don't mean much, in the grand chessboard of it all.
And I'm also pretty sure that's both untrue and an honest-to-god tragedy.
I mean, I'm right there with you--I find my own story (as a *whole*) pretty dull. But then if I challenge myself? If I call myself on what absolutely has to be a lie, because who doesn't have a good story somewhere, I remember the chicken story. Or the summer our neighbor in Brooksville loaded his shotgun every morning, discharging it into the air every time the developer/realtor team came to show prospective clients the development site across the street from him. I remember the time my sister and I shook out our piggy banks and walked to the Five & Dime all by ourselves to buy gifts for everyone at Christmas. I remember my grandfather picking us up at the bus stop and taking us to get cupcakes after school. I remember the freakishly amazing way my childhood friend, Karen's, feet would swell every time she ate salt, like a party trick she couldn't wait to show off.
These stories--they're peppered through every life and they're what make us so heartbreakingly lovable, no matter what we've done to lose them, to soil them, to trample them down out of importance.
It's our stories, our ongoing stories, that make us human--and as soon as we forget that, as soon as we dismiss that, then we're in some serious trouble.