Humor for the Hobbyless
I’m a Fox Hunter Now
Just Gotta Get Used to the Slaughter
I’m an admirer of hobbies. So far, primarily from afar.
This is peculiar because I have plenty of free time. After finishing household chores to a substandard level and completing what even supportive friends would call an “unambitious” physical workout, I still have plenty of space on my dance card.
Furthermore, my family would be happy for me to spend much less time with them. The frequent use of phrases like “for the love of God” and “it can’t go on like this” make it unambiguous that I have the all-clear to find an interesting activity or two.
Lastly, I wouldn’t mind having one. My motivation is straightforward: have occasion to buy serious equipment, achieve expert-status on a topic, and become a sought-after guest at fabulous dinner parties.
And yet, up until a couple of days ago, I remained hobbyless. I collected movie posters in my 3-week arthouse phase and have pickled the occasional botulistic cucumber, but I hadn’t stumbled across that indelible fit between available free time and having an interesting activity to pursue.
That’s because hobbies aren’t interesting activities. They’re activities that are interesting to you.
