Not Buying It

I’m weirdly suspicious of people who get really into their hobbies. You know, people who have a “thing” that defines them, directs them, and motivates them above all other things. They think about it, talk about it, and blog about it. My dad is like this with army action figures (like G.I. Joes but more expensive) and guitars. I have a friend that collects and knows everything about film cameras, another that is obsessed with running races, and a ton who are really into their careers.

I’m suspicious because I don’t get it. I identify more readily with people who are lost or conflicted or half-hearted in their endeavors. I like to run, but I’d rather sleep in. I like being a lawyer, but think constantly about being a teacher. I really dig our new puppy, but I get bored when we don’t talk about anything else.

The thing is, I’ve got reservations about my whole damn life. My employer, my line of work, my gym, apartment, neighborhood, city, my choices as a consumer, dog-owner, wife, human, and so on. It’s not insecurity. Just uncertainty as to whether the life I have is really the one I want. Just about the only thing I ever jumped into without hesitation or regret was my relationship with Husband and that’s just about the only thing I wouldn’t be willing to trade away for a different, more adventurous way of life. I wish I had a hobby I could pour all this wanderlust and restlessness into. Like my dad, with his action figures or my friend and his cameras. But, like I said, I’m suspicious of satisfaction that appears to come so easily.

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