I was talking to someone who, for whatever reason popped into their head, asked me what my hobby was. I thought that was an odd question for an adult by an adult. I guess I’m missing out on some great things, if this person was to be believed, but I’m not much of a hobbyist so informed them as such.
“Oh, come on, everyone has a hobby.”
Now why do people have to ruin a perfectly ridiculous conversation by being idiotic? After all, if I did indeed have a hobby isn’t talking about it one of the joys?
No, I explain again, I don’t have an interest pursued for pleasure or relaxation not as an occupation. I don’t have an occupation pursued for pleasure or relaxation either but I don’t want to sully the mud of this conversation with my stupidity.
“There must be something you do to relax.”
“Does passing out drunk count?”
Turns out that wasn’t in the big book of official hobbies. Too bad because that would be a great hobby. I was also informed telling people to fuck off wasn’t in the book either. That wouldn’t be my hobby anyway. I’d be on the pro tour!
Am I a model trainer? No. Do I collect life-sized replicas of celebrity poop? No. Am I a devote of German-style board games ? No, but I think I’m starting a collection of stroke inducing blood pressure readings.
By this time I knew he wasn’t going to stop without me having some type of hobby.
“Does blood splatter painting count? Because soon you’re going to be my work of art.”
Now if you have any familiarity with me, you are aware that, usually, after a line such as that I am left to my own devices. But what is it about hobbyists? Are they lonely? Starved for interaction not related to spelunking? Whatever it was, this pitbull wouldn’t let go.
“Yeah,” I say. “You got me. I have a hobby.” He smiles gleefully in anticipation. “But I’m a little embarrassed about it.”
“No need to be embarrassed!” He coddles. “Whatever brings your life joy is good.”
I pause an extra moment kicking invisible stones with my toe.
“I collect business cards.”
The man is shocked!
“What’s embarrassing about that? Many people collect. . .”
“. . .and scratch out the persons name and number then write in my own. . .”
“. . .ing. . .oh.”
“I have one that says I’m a United States senator!”
I love this moment. It’s that netherworld between them wondering if I’m crazy enough to do this or I’m messing with them. They never seem to arrive at the truth.
“I even did it to my own business card. I thought that was quite post-modern quixotically ironic.”
After all, how can they get to the truth if I’m not sure myself.