and then kate

The other day, I was enthusiastically explaining to a fellow mom the intricacies of the Dustbuster and my proven way for making it work at full power even after its brand-newness has worn off. It was around the time I reached into her vacuum, pulled out the inner filter, and scraped away the accumulated crud with a fingernail that it hit me: I really, really need to get a hobby. 

I wish I had someone to blame for my blatant dullness and the fact that my life is beginning to toe the line of downright insipid. I suppose I could nod suggestively in Aura’s direction, since this parenting thing doesn’t leave a lot of room for leisure. Or I could point a subtle finger at Adam, whose life is rich with hobbies, all of which consume massive amounts of space and bank balances and therefore might suffocate my own creative impulses. But no. Though it pains me to admit it, I am fully responsible.

Now, don’t get me wrong.  I do have interests. I like to bake. I love to read. I take great pleasure from long walks.  And these are all perfectly acceptable activities, particularly if you are 75 years old. I can’t help thinking that at 32, I could ratchet things up a notch or twenty. 

It’s not as if I haven’t tried. For instance! During a good chunk of our childless years, Adam and I would try a new restaurant at least once a week, spending piles of money to earn the title of “foodies.”  But then Aura came along and there were no babysitters and it dawned on me that I hate the word foodie almost as much as I despise the word playdate. Also, in retrospect, I am not sure that eating is a hobby.

Oh! There was also the knitting class. A few years ago, this adorable little crafting studio/store opened a few blocks down from our apartment. I dropped in for a quick look-see, breathing in the scent of overpriced scrapbooking paper and imported yarn and make-it-yourself chandelier-earring kits with something like hope. Flushed with the possibilities, I rushed home to tell Adam that I was going to take up knitting, detailing labyrinthine plans for scarves and sweaters and perhaps even tea cozies.

So he signed me up for a beginner’s knitting class. And it was awful. It was like the ballet lessons, but about a MILLION BILLION TIMES WORSE.  I will say that I managed to get the hang of casting. But then…nothing. I don’t know if it was the fact that the teacher was too far down the table or if it’s just that I lacked the ability to conceptualize what was supposed to be taking place on my needles.  All I know is that by the end of the two-hour class, the other women were knitting and purling like they were fresh off 10 years in some kind of wooly, yarn-heavy sweatshop, while I had to be taken aside by the teacher no less than five times for extra help. 

After that, baking and reading seemed better. Nice and safe and private. And rarely humiliating, with the exception of one Boston Cream Pie gone very awry.

But it’s time.  The clock is ticking for New Year’s resolutions and all that crap, so I’m game. In 2010, I will research, identify, and develop a hobby. Indoor rock climbing? (Might hurt.) Organic gardening? (Might be dirty.) Playing acoustic guitar? (Might produce calluses.)  I’m just not sure. 

Please: I’m all for suggestions.