Hobby

I think I need a hobby.  When I started this blog, I thought it might be the hobby I needed, but as I close out the first year of this “hobby,” I am starting to think it may be more of an unhealthy obsession.  I’ve had unhealthy obsessions before.  I’m not what most people would refer to as fanatical, but I’m pretty good at spotting damaging attachments.  I’ve spent a lot of time fostering my vices.  Men.  Booze.  Sex.  Cigarettes.  TV on DVD.  I’ve had my share all of it.  But the older I get, there are fewer men who are worth my time.  The wine doesn’t flow like water, as it once did.  Sex is a lot of investment for what, usually, turns out to be very minimal return.  I still smoke, but even that is starting to lose its appeal. I do have four seasons of Dexter left, but I just don’t feel compelled to stay up for the next 72 hours to finish it up. 

Now, don’t get me wrong.  I still really like men, I’m just better at filtering them now.  I still really like sex, I’m just not going to go out of my way for it anymore.  (One day I’ll tell you about the last man I had sex with.  It’ll all make sense then.)  I still love my wine and I’ll definitely watch the last four seasons of Dexter.  I just don’t need it all RIGHT NOW anymore.  But what I do need is a hobby.  Because this blog has become very unhealthy. 

Today, no less than ten things happened that I absolutely HAD to write about.  I kept thinking to myself “OMG!  I have to write that down!!”  I really didn’t have to write it down.  I just spilled coffee on my pants.  Then I thought “Ok.  Listen sister.”  Yes, I refer to myself as “sister” in my inner monologue.  Don’t judge me.  Anyway, I said to myself “Listen, sister.  Not everything needs to be documented.  Anyone who saw you today could see that you spilled coffee on your pants.”  That at I do it almost every day.  That’s when I began to think that I probably need a hobby, outside of my hobby. 

So, I thought about it.  When I got pregnant with Radley and I couldn’t shoot pool and throw darts all the time, I took up puzzles.  Awesome, right?  Stimulates the mind, keeps your hands busy.  I did four puzzles in five days.  That’s where it ended.  In hindsight, four puzzles in five days may have been a little excessive.  So, puzzles are out.  I keep seeing my friends doing these really incredible craft projects.  They knit and crochet and make sweaters and blankets and the most precious little baby bonnets.  I thought maybe I could do that.  You know, mind occupied hands busy.  That seemed like a really good option.  Until I remembered that I can’t even tie a knot in a string without fucking it up.  That being the case, maybe lots and lots of string and lots and lots of knots being tied together with very sharp, tiny hooks isn’t my calling either. 

Then, it hit me!  Cooking.  I’m good at that.  People like food.  I like feeding people.  There’s no way that won’t work.  Except I live by myself.  With a six year old.  He likes bananas and oreos.  And milk.  But that’s pretty much it.  So, while cooking is a perfect hobby for me, it just doesn’t make much sense, given the circumstances.  ANNNDDDD…that left me back at square one.  Excellent.  And the first thing I thought to myself is “maybe I should pour a glass of wine when I get home.”  See.  I still love wine.  But while I was caught between a place where I wanted to find something new and a place where I wanted to retreat to the familiar, I heard this song.  “He Went to Paris.”  Jimmy Buffett.  Circa late 1970’s-ish.  And I remembered listening to that song in college, and thinking “I’m gonna write a book one day.  And it’s going to be about real life and real people.” 

As a result of that song, and the inspiration, I spent a lot of late nights/early mornings at the Denny’s in Fairfax with an omelet and a spiral bound notebook.  Just writing down what I saw at the time.  What I had seen before.  And what I hoped I would see eventually.  Turns out, this has been my hobby for much longer than I thought. 

Writing may not help everyone, but it helps me.  And it’s a good hobby for me.  I realize that not everyone can relate to what I say.  That’s fine, because I don’t always relate to what others have to say, either.  But this outlet of mine has made me think about what I say and learn to respect what other people are saying.  Today, a friend walked into the clinic.  He looked at me, with a disenchanted grin on his face.  He wasn’t there to see me, he was there for something different.  But he looked at me and said “You finally wrote something I didn’t agree with.”  Criticism is always like a dagger in the heart.  But I’ve opened myself up in such a way, that I’m going to get it now.  I never thought this day would come.  I always just assumed that if people didn’t like what I had to say, they’d never talk to me again.  I’d never be the wiser.  I was Ok with that.  But when Tim said to me “when you talk about being stereotyped, you are stereotyping others.”  I didn’t get defensive.  I didn’t angry.  I listened to what he said.  And he said a lot of things.  Things I would never expect a conservative, A-type, to say.  I listened to all of it.  At the end he held out his arms, now be reminded, this guy is built like a brick shithouse.  His wing span is kind of like a condor, 26 feet wide and casts a giant shadow.  As he was holding his arms out, he pointed with his left, then with his right, and said “Politically, if you are over there, I’m over here.  You’re a fucking hippie and I’m way conservative.  But I get you.”  I looked at him and laughed.  I said “all kinds, right?”  We laughed some more. 

After that, I forgot about finding a new hobby.  A new hobby wouldn’t make this any more significant.  Where else can I get that kind of feedback? If, by the grace of God, I crocheted a blanket for your child, without killing or maiming someone, would you tell me it was the most hideous thing you’ve ever seen, even though it was?  If I cooked you a dinner that tasted like sour rubber, would you tell me you hated it?  My guess is no.  But when I write about some of my most passionate feelings, would you tell me that you don’t agree?  Yes.  You would.  And then, after you told me what I had to say sucked, we can talk about why we share differences of opinion.   And maybe, MAYBE, we could get better perspective about how other people think.  And why they do what they do.  This may not be sex or booze, but this is my vice.  This is what connects me to people I never thought I would ever be connected with.  This really is my inner peas.