Terminal Boredom

I hate to admit it, but I’m in deep trouble. Deep enough to get me searching desperately for a solution. The problem? I’ve completely lost interest in almost everything I used to love. Unfortunately, it’s been going on like this for several months.

It’s bizarre, actually because at the moment, a demented hummingbird, high on crack cocaine, has a far greater attention span than I do. That’s the best way I can explain it.

I have to admit I’m growing increasingly concerned because my abnormal condition has rapidly degenerated into a baffling mystery. Although I’ve resisted for months, the problem has finally become disturbing enough to force me to seek professional help.

In business and in life, I’ve always been proud of my ability to focus laser-like on any task or problem I faced. However, somewhere along the way, that special gift has vanished like a snowball in the heat of the Sahara Desert. I never thought something like this could happen to me.

This critical meeting today at the Pinewoods Medical Center in Seattle is a prime example of the problem. I came here for the sole purpose of receiving the important results of a battery of recent diagnostic tests.

But, instead of concentrating on the all-important words of my physician, I found myself staring blankly at a watercolor painting of the Eiffel Tower hanging slightly off-center on the office wall behind his head. Just staring lost in a daze.

In my stupor, I was barely aware of the droning background conversation until one terrifying word broke through my fog-addled brain. The word jolted me back to the present in a flash.

“Terminal? Did you say terminal?” I asked as a cold spike of fear drove deep into my innards.

My doctor nodded, then sat in somber silence, staring at me.

“Terminal?” I repeated. “As in the final end of my illustrious days on this planet?”

“For Christ’s sake, relax,” Doctor Rogers grinned. “Why do you always have to be so damned melodramatic?”

“It’s easy for you, Ted,” I protested. “You’re not the one dying here.”

“Neither are you, you moron. You didn’t listen to what I said.”

“Try me again.”

“Okay, listen carefully this time. I said you’re suffering from ‘terminal boredom.’”

“That doesn’t sound like a bona fide medical condition to me.”

“It’s not,” Ted grinned. “I just made it up because it suits your symptoms.”

“Are you saying I’m a hypochondriac?”

“You are, Norm, but I didn’t say that,” Ted continued. “Your symptoms are real enough, but there isn’t any sign of an underlying physical cause. I ran every test I could think of.”

“So, I’m a mental case?”

“Sure, but so are half my patients. Your problem, my friend, is you made a huge mistake, and now you’re paying the price.”

“My huge mistake was coming to see you instead of finding a real doctor.”

Ted laughed. “Well, my Harvard medical degree seems to satisfy a great number of people with genuine health issues. Now, how about you shut up and let me finish?”

I sank back in Ted’s stuffed leather visitor’s chair and gave my long-time friend my full undivided attention. Despite our bantering, I had great respect for Ted’s medical acumen. If anyone could get to the root of my problem, it would be him. We’d been close friends since we were kids.

“As I started to say before you rudely interrupted me, you made a big mistake, buddy. You’re far too young to retire and sit on your fat ass. Your advertising agency was at the top of the game. But, unfortunately, you bailed out too early, and now you’re suffering terminal boredom. It may not kill you, but you’ll probably wish you were dead.”

“I’d like to see what you would do if someone waved a twenty-million-dollar check in front of your nose,” I said defensively.

“Fat chance,” Ted sighed. “I’ll still be doing rectal exams until I’m ninety. But don’t change the subject. You’re heading for trouble if you don’t wise up. You’re overweight, boozing too much, and God only knows when you last got laid.”

Ted’s comment was right on the money. My recent breakup with Andrea Corby had finally ended our turbulent seven-year relationship. Since then, I’ve been living on my own, almost like a hermit, in an old five-bedroom family cottage on the shores of beautiful Green Lake outside Seattle.

Between selling my business and losing Andrea, nothing could hold my interest for more than a few fleeting moments. I spent most days in a zombie-like state, watching endless re-runs on television. More often than not, I would go to bed with the same clothes I woke up wearing from the night before.

“I’ll be honest with you,” I confessed. “I feel like shit. Is there anything I can do right now about the way I feel? Have you got any anti-depressants that aren’t habit-forming?”

“You don’t want to start down that road, buddy. It’s a dead-end street,” Ted said, shaking his head vigorously. “My advice to you is to get yourself started on an exercise program, develop some interesting hobbies, and start using that creative noodle of yours. It wouldn’t hurt to look for some compatible female companionship, excluding my receptionist, of course.”

“I’m not even interested in the nubile Gretchen anymore,” I said sadly.

“Christ. You really are in trouble,” Ted said seriously.

Gretchen, Ted’s statuesque receptionist, had always been a bone of contention between us. I knew Ted had a secret crush on Gretchen, so I always tried to come on to her every time I visited his office. Just to keep him off balance.

“Well, if the best your expensive, Harvard-educated medical diagnosis can come up with is a phony diagnosis of ‘terminal boredom,’ I’ll head home. There’s a marathon showing of the Beverly Hillbillies on television this afternoon. I don’t want to miss it.”

I stood up to leave, but Ted waved me back to my seat. He rummaged in his top drawer for a business card. His face lit up when he finally found it.

“This is a long shot, Norm. But what the hell have you got to lose?”

“What is it?”

“A guy I went to med school with—a weird duck by the name of Jerome Wilson. The lucky jerk made a huge fortune on crypto tokens. Sold it all and opened a research center. He’s running some kind of charitable organization, as I understand it.”

Ted handed me a jet-black card with expensive gold engraved lettering. The wording said, THE BEYOND/BOREDOM INSTITUTE. Other than a phone number, there was nothing else.

“Is this a joke?”

Ted shrugged. “Who knows? But I’d rather have you take a crack at something like this instead of popping anti-depressants. If you want to take a chance, I’ll phone and book you an appointment.”

What I really wanted was to go home. The promotion for today’s re-run of the Beverly Hillbillies promised to reveal if Daisy Mae was pregnant by the gardener’s son. To get Ted off my back, I surrendered.

“Sure. What the hell? Go ahead and make the appointment.”

As I headed for home that day, I had no idea of what I had just set myself up for.