Thursday, October 2, 2014

Hobby Phobia

I don't have a hobby. Hobbies, I'd always told myself, were for the types who secretly enjoy paint fumes and boring other people at parties. It's not that I've never been impressed by someone's model car or flower arrangement, it's just that I'm almost never impressed by someone's model car or flower arrangement. But I have my self-esteem to consider. How am I supposed to think less of other people when they make the time to cultivate actual skills while I cultivate a divot in the couch?

It's time for me to stick my face in the proverbial paint can and huff.

A few years ago, I tried to convince myself that going to the gym was a hobby. It is not. Jogging on a treadmill while watching reruns of Law & Order does not constitute "an activity done during leisure time for pleasure." It is, at best, an activity done under threat of type 2 diabetes.

I should add that I haven't been to the gym in over 2 years. Not long after I became pregnant, I decided that growing a baby directly on top of my bladder was something that must be suffered from the comfort of a bed or a warm bath or a McDonald's. And when my son arrived and all meaningful rest ended, I told myself that breastfeeding was a reasonable alternative to exercise. Like jogging, nursing my son burned calories and required a special bra. Of course, I stopped nursing my son almost 6 months ago. Nowadays, I burn calories by staying awake at night, my belly slumped on the bed beside me, and wondering why I've been cursed with a car and a washing machine and a vacuum — implements designed to efficiently run my life even as I devolve into a heap of unused muscle.

By comparison, my middle sister enjoys training for triathlons and charity runs. She eats oatmeal for breakfast and grilled chicken for lunch. She wears spandex with abandon. There are photos of her crawling out of a choppy ocean and sprinting toward an awaiting bike. I can't even step in a puddle without running home to change my shoes; I'll be damned if I would ride a bike in a soggy swim suit. Actually, I'll be damned if I would ride a bike. My point being that my sister does all of this "during leisure time for pleasure." But some people wear gimp masks and ball gags in their leisure time for pleasure. So cross triathlons off my list of possible hobbies.

You'd think I could turn to my husband for inspiration. He's a man of a million hobbies, having taken up everything from cycling to podcasting. His latest pursuit is home brewing. Plastic tubing and metal sieves are piled in the basement sink. Murky liquid bubbles inside glass jugs scattered around our laundry room. In another 2 weeks, he'll either have his first batch of porter or a chemical weapon. Aside from the clutter, I support Shelby's hobby, because I support beer. Sadly, I cannot be trusted around foodstuffs. I've memorized how to make a package of ramen noodles, but every time I try to cook in earnest, something catches fire or is served raw in the center. If I'm really on top of my game, the same something catches fires and is served raw in the center. The delicate beer fermentation process is best left to people who can at least microwave a Lean Cuisine without needing to summon the fire department. Strike beer brewing from my hobby options.

Good luck sewing with those oven mitts on, genius.

My cohorts in MOMS Club are no help either. As Halloween looms on the horizon like a giant, awful candy corn, talk at play group turns to costumes and crafts.

"Who's planning to order a Frozen costume this year?" asks one mom.

A collective "Me!" rises from the gathered group.

"Well," explains the first mom, "I've come up with an easy way to make your own Olaf costume. And it's cheap!"

The mamas lean in. A reverent hush falls across the room.

As crafty mom describes fabric paint and squares of felt and hot glue, I think to myself, "I'm a grown-ass woman with a credit card."

Let's get real. I have routinely used Scotch tape to fix a drooping hem. In an attempt to trim my own bangs, I once removed half of an eyebrow. I will not be making my son's Halloween costume. We will go to Target on October 30th and buy whatever outfit is left on the holiday aisle's smoldering heap. Crafting was long ago bucked from my hobby horse.

Athletics: no. Cooking: no way. Crafting: nope. Painting: no good. Woodworking: terrible idea. Music: ugh. Bird watching: what? Quilting: shut up. Listing everything that I'm no good at and feeling badly about myself: ding, ding, ding!

I hate imperfection. If a crust burns, I give up baking. If I miss a step, dancing is over. The fear of looking foolish tags along on all of my errands, on every outing. Before I had Pork Chop, that fear circumscribed my life, but it was my life. Now I have this precious, precocious toddler, a boy bursting at the seams to try it all. He's recently mastered stomping, flushing the potty, swirling his hands in the potty, and screaming "So funny!" at the top of his lungs.

Yes, I'm stumped by a needle and thread. Yes, I get nervous and squeaky when I sing. But my son doesn't care. He falls on his face a hundred times a day. He fails and fails and fails until, eventually, he gets it, or at least until he stops hurting himself. Every day, his little life expands. May it never stop expanding.

So let it be known, Internet, that, starting right now, I am going to stride boldly(ish) toward failure. Smoke detectors may sound. An ambulance may be summoned. I may be asked to put down a glue gun and back away slowly. But I could use a little more breathing room in this life of mine. It's not so much that I need to get a life, as it is that I need to get a life addition — one with space for a yoga mat or, god help us, a karaoke machine.

Normally, I like to end a post with some pithy observation or funny turn of phrase, but today I am going to end with a promise: I will try something new. Hell, I will try somethings. And I will keep you posted.

And if you see a ball of flame erupt in the skies above Alexandria, Virginia, do me a solid and call 911.


23 comments:

  1. My computer programmer mom retired and took up rug hooking. We used to laugh about how she had no artistic talent and now she's proven us all wrong using a completely obscure medium. It's amazing the stuff she can make. The best part is they're called rug hookers so for short we just refer to her now as a "hooker".

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    1. I had one of this pot holder looms that were all the rage in the late 70s and early 80s. Now that you mention rug hooking, I recall being pretty badass with a loom. Maybe there's a future for me in hooking!

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  2. Woo hoo! However, for the record, didn't you recently take up blogging? Surely that counts. But I can't wait to read about whatever other new thing you decide to try :)

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    1. I, too, can't wait to read about what new thing I'm gonna try. God help me (and my family). And, honestly, blogging isn't so much a hobby as it is an infectious disease.

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    2. Yes indeed. Rash, aches, compulsive wandering toward the computer at night. Most definitely a disease. But also, is writing a hobby or an art? i vote for the latter, certainly in your case.

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    3. It's not a hobby. It doesn't always feel like art (although I give that a go from time to time). A calling? Maybe. A disease, yes -- I think you nailed it. How else can I explain why I'm sitting at this computer when I could be eating Fudgesicles on the couch with my husband?

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  3. I have concluded that reading and blogging count as hobbies...and being funny...well THAT is a talent, if not a hobby! Great piece.

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    1. Oh, reading! See, I RULE at reading. Sadly, reading just doesn't impress my friends, and what are hobbies for if not to impress/bore our friends? (And thank you.)

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    2. It is true. No one cares about reading. Just check my book review stats at huffington post. Seriously, NO ONE cares!

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  4. I wondered what those sirens I keep hearing were for. And I agree with mydailypresents up there. Blogging is a hobby. BOOM you've got a hobby!! Now get out there and keep up the good work!! And save me some of Chowby's beer.

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    1. But blogging doesn't require special clothes or equipment, and everyone knows that it isn't a hobby unless you spend lots of money to pursue it. Maybe I'll invent the blogger butt cushion or wrist supports or something. Then we can talk about it being a hobby.

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  5. I fully agree with the others that blogging and reading totally count! HOWEVER, if you are so inclined as to make baking a new hobby, I will gladly serve as a taste-tester. I will even provide supervision while you bake to avoid any inadvertent fires (for which you can pay me back in cookie dough).

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    1. And next up on Welcome to the Bundle, Jess lands her dear friend in the hospital with a terrible case of food poisoning! (PS: This comment is legally binding. You are now contractually obligated to eat my terrible cooking.)

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  6. Hilarious as always. Love it. I agree with a previous comment - making me laugh is my favorite hobby of yours. MOMS newsletter count as a hobby? Wine party count as a hobby?

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    1. Wine parties as hobby? Hmm. See, that's why I like you. You are, at heart, an enabler. (Just kidding. You are, at heart, someone who would like to be served wine. What more can I ask for in a friend?)

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  7. HAHAHHA...I'm a grown ass woman with a credit card.

    YES!

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    1. Not gonna lie: I was so proud of myself when I wrote that line. And it's even true!

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  8. I am right there with you Jess. Not only am I without a hobby, but I also hate talking to people (mostly just the ones I dont know). That being said, I realized recently that if I don't expand my horizons and try new things or meet new people, my kids would actually be the ones missing out. So here's to you and I burning shit, crafting stuff, and not being antisocial. YEAH US! Love ya, mean it. -Sarah

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    1. I guess we are related after all, right? Which kind of begs the question, where did Kim come from?

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  9. Now, now girls. Be nice to your sister. She has some of your weirdness in her, too! A.D.

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  10. What about martial arts? Nothing feels quite as badass as breaking a board with your bare hand.

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    1. It's true. The martial arts do seem badass. And I have considered taking a class many times. But I am the most accident-prone person that I know. I actually managed to slice my cheek open with my own fingernail while trying to open a bottle of soda. (Damned tight bottle cap.) All of that said, I did make a pledge to try something new. If you can recommend a particular martial art, I'm all ears.

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    2. Style's actually probably not as important as finding a place that you feel comfortable with. Not new-student comfortable (There is no such place, ALL new martial arts students are awkward like adorable baby seals) but comfortable with the staff so that you can say "I'm about as awkward as a drunk baby seal, is that okay?" or "Well I was going to come to class but my adorable child just threw up juice on face..."

      Style's secondary to that but important in terms of how intense you want to be, and how much you want to end up having to own really silly looking protective gear and a mouth guard in a hilarious color. There's 'hard' styles (karate, tae kwon do), soft(er) styles (judo, tai chi, aikido), mixed (jujitsu) and ... then there's krav maga. Which is best described as hard and hella intense.

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