Self-Inflicted Hobby Anxiety at the Union Square Trader Joe's
Last week while bagging my brussel sprouts and tying an extra plastic bag around my eggs, my Trader Joe's cashier asked me what my hobbies were. Shortly thereafter, I spiraled into existential dread.
"What a loaded question," my friend replied when I reported the tale back to her over Voice Memo, clutching my overstuffed grocery bag to my chest. I guess my answer would depend on who's asking: a first date (going to new restaurants, writing, pilates); the hiring manager at my job interview (reading, trying new recipes, spending time outside); my Great Aunt trying to pick out a Hanukkah gift (water coloring, tennis, floral arrangement). *Writer’s note: the aforementioned hobbies are 70% fabricated in order to make me seem more interesting than I am.
Growing up, it would seem we had endless time and resources for hobbies at our finger tips. If you grew up with financial privilege, there would be no weekday left unscheduled. What are you doing after school today would percolate throughout the halls as the bell rang, lockers slammed, and we climbed through the rows of leather bus seats. Dance on Mondays, tennis Tuesdays, piano lesson on Wednesday, Hebrew school Thursday. My high school friends used to bead dozens of bracelets and knot wire into intricate earrings, perform in stand-up poetry competitions, dance 5 days a week, play viola in the orchestra. They played chess in the newspaper room, learned guitar in their bedrooms, collaged magazines to decorate their walls, and devoured the 7-part Harry Potter series in 2 weeks. Now most of us just answer emails and run formulas on Excel.
When inspiration does strike and I feel drawn to a writing class or to the pottery wheel, all it takes is one Google search for the $500 course fee and my hobbyist aspirations go down the drain. I'm not the only one whose eyes grow misty at the sight of her own sparsely scheduled and un-diversified plans (okay, that may be an exaggeration, but the point remains). Since graduating from college and entering the 'real world,' I've had countless conversations with friends who long for the structured communities built around a shared interest— from high school art classes to sports teams to improv theater. Sure, there’s the kickball league and Paint & Sip and Color Me Mine, but those things cost money, and are often several hours worth of time commitment. Between working a full-time job, grocery shopping, cooking, cleaning, running errands, getting exercise, and performing the basic necessities to uphold your life, most people my age draw the line at a few social plans (don’t forget the 3 different Hinge dates you have to squeeze in). When you do find yourself with weekday plans, they either involve an overpriced cocktail or the vegan cacio e pepe you just haaaave to try. The idea of an organized activity that may further drain your bank account doesn't always jazz a crowd.
And so I’ve found myself grappling with a certain insecurity, of which I’ve dubbed “Hobby Guilt” or “Hobby Anxiety.” When I do find the time and motivation to pore over the pages of a library book, scrape together a few paragraphs for this newsletter, or paint a watercolor card for a friend’s birthday, I’m overcome with a sense of self-inflicted pressure. I didn’t read enough. I haven’t been writing as much as I should be. The watercolor I painted for my Uncle was nice, but then I shoved the paint set in my cabinet and haven’t used it since. Somehow, I find myself measuring my pursuits of joy against arbitrary parameters of productivity. I’m not reading 50 pages a day, so I don’t want to read for another 10 days. I didn’t write last month, so I’m not going to for the next three. Trapped in a cycle of guilt and procrastination, the very activities meant to be a solace from performance end up being another task on the never-ending list of to-do’s.
I so desperately wish to be released from my hobby guilt, to feel as though the 7 pages I read last night were enough. That I’m writing enough. Painting enough. Playing enough. Walking enough. Maybe the first step is to understand that there is no enough. That each unfinished library book or half written post or abandoned watercolor set doesn’t make me less than. To the Trader Joe’s cashier who asked me what my hobbies were— about how much time do you have to hear me out? Will it be enough?