Yesterday I found myself reading to some grade schoolers, one of whom, Franklin, was not taken by the enterprise. He unenthusiastically handed me his book, The Velveteen Rabbit, and slumped in his chair with the resignation of the hopeless. As I read the classic aloud, his eyes, big behind his clunky glasses, searched the room for more enticing pursuits. At one point he dropped his head on the table, not so much resting but impaling it there, his cheek scrunched against the wood, his glasses pushed up to his forehead, his eyes closed in deepest misery. And looking at him, I kind of admired his lack of inhibition, his exquisite physical demonstration of boredom. How many times, stuck in dull conversations, have I felt like assuming the exact same position but refrained out of a learned sense of decorum?
