Having Fun

It was after the lost and found chicken viewing, after the cockroach infestation, after the stool sample debacle, after the murky fish pond incident, after the second-degree flaming-building-burn that I received the email asking if I was “having fun over there.”

Am I having fun over here? I thought it seemed like a bit of an exaggeration as I stood in my workout clothes staring at the bare light bulb and dirty white walls of my bedroom. Somewhere I had once seen that you burn a fair amount of calories standing. So I stood, pondering, in my running shoes and sports bra.

I’m not not having fun. But, if I’m not not having fun, does that mean by default that I’m having fun? “I’m having an experience over here.” No, that sounds like something George Costanza would say in a panicky voice while flapping his arms. I flapped my arms a little bit and laughed out loud. I feared I might be loosing my mind. And I had definitely over-exerted myself.

I lay down on my neatly made bed. Someone came in every morning to make my bed, clean my bathroom, do my dishes, and wash my clothes. In the meantime, I sat alone at an expansive conference table and typed away on my keyboard. I had fallen into a weekend routine of coffee, lunch, shopping and then dinner or drinks with friends. I had bought overpriced books and borrowed movies for weekday evenings alone. I had started swimming or walking Tank Hill Road after work. It all seemed like not such a bad gig. But, was it fun?

I had started my workouts of swimming, walking to and from the gelato stand, or hardcore standing after my final pair of jeans failed to button. From the bed I could see the neatly washed and folded pile of jeans in my closet. They sat, waiting for the standing – now lying – to melt away the pounds. I normally like to workout, actually. But, the heat and constant illnesses have kept my energy and motivation low.

And, then it hit me. I imagined the frustration of pulling on my too-tight jeans while taking a deep deep breath into order to zip them up. They weren’t perfect. But, with a longish shirt, they were good enough. Not too dissimilar from my feelings about Kampala. Kampala is frustrating at times; it’s not a perfect fit. But, I’ve squeezed myself in and am making the most of it. I’m enjoying my time here. However, I’m still looking forward to the next city – one where I just slip in and have everything button up nicely.

“Hey, great to hear from you!” I wrote. “Yeah, I’m having fun over here.”

Thanks for asking.