“I like documentaries. Reading. Old cameras. Nat geo. Podcasts. Records. Arts and crafts.”
“Into painting. Cookbooks. Performance. Reading. Theory.”
“Embroidery. Music. Food.”
This is a sample of the things people say they like on the awful dating app Tinder. But it’s also representative of things people say in real life. People like things. People are “into” things. People have hobbies.
That’s great. It’s just I ... don’t.
You hear it all the time. People like 17th-century architecture. People are obsessed with Italian noir fiction. People grow plants or love to cook.
I don’t like doing any of those things. What’s more, I don’t go to the cinema. I don’t go to gigs. I haven’t read any of the latest books, heard any of the latest albums, seen any of the latest art exhibitions. Obviously I don’t go to the theatre. I have travelled, a bit (New Jersey counts, right?) but I wouldn’t feel comfortable calling it a passion.
You can feel inadequate when you haven’t got a hobby. It can make meeting new people a stressful experience. It’s not just dating. It’s encountering anyone new. I dread in-depth conversations about music, or running a bee colony, or making plaster casts of people’s genitalia.
Most of all I dread the question: “So what do you do in your free time?”
It is terrifying. “What do I actually do in my free time?” I ask myself. “What have I been doing with myself while Ben was learning to crochet? Did I waste five years while Amanda was going to Italian classes?”
How did I get to 29 years old without having an all-encompassing passion for woodwork or Nietzsche or ketamine? Or Swedish films in black and white or pottery or Spanish classes or dogging?
I like Jason Statham, but that’s hardly a hobby. I like drinking in bars – but who doesn’t? I ride my bike around and eat food. Ta da.
I read a bit, I watch Netflix a bit, I buy clothes a bit, I listen to music a bit. Nothing to excess. Nothing to expert level. Nothing that involves taking a class or spending money.
But somehow, even without hobbies, I manage to fill up the days. Watching Peep Show over and over again takes up time. Eating the same meal (chicken breast with salad) three times a week takes up time. So does meeting up with the same friends in the same locations to talk about the same things. (Relationships. Work. That rash that won’t go away. The weather.)
Maybe the point is that you don’t have to occupy every second of your free time to have a contented life. Maybe my feelings of inadequacy are misplaced.
Because, in the end, I think I’m happy with my mundane existence. There is a simple pleasure in going with the flow. Of not having your weekends or evenings booked up. You don’t have to be devoted to something. You can wait for someone who can include you in their hobbies. Drink someone else’s fancy whiskey, smoke someone else’s crack.
I live in New York. It is not a boring life. There is lots to do. Who cares if I do hardly any of it? I can stand in bars next to the cool, interesting, passionate people. Ride the bus with them. Ogle them in the park.
It’s just that I’m not one of them.
I’m boring. I don’t really do anything in my free time. And you know what? I don’t care.
