Bland

Kim considered herself bland. Her definition had been built on all of the traits that she did not possess; all of the places she did not belong.

She was not a member of a visible minority, nor did she have an unusual weight, height, or appearance. Her job, as a high school teacher, made her one of tens of thousands in her province.

She was not rich, or poor for that matter, she no longer had a husband, and she did not belong to any clubs or organizations. She was an atheist, and even if she could be persuaded to believe in a higher power, her parents, and their parents before them, had all been such non-believers that Kim could not even pin a particular religious label on herself.

When she walked down the street, people did not notice her. Their eyes did linger on her figure or mock her appearance. She simply existed.

More boring than white bread, and just as tasteless, she belonged to no one, fit in nowhere, and could drop dead at any time and no one would notice she no longer inhaled and exhaled.

Remarkably, one evening, as she pondered the pathetic selection of television shows to watch, she decided that rather than picking up a good book to read, she would write one.

A memoire no less.

Because surely she was not the only bland person on the planet. And if she could somehow capture the quintessential essence of bland-dom, she would sell at the very least, a few hundred thousand copies of the book, one for every other bland person, who, like her, made their home in an English-speaking part of the world.

She opened a dollar store notebook, picked up a pen, and wrote, "I consider myself bland."