Hobbyist

Photo by Steve Johnson on Pexels

No, not a "lobbyist." I do not intend to advocate for Microsoft or Pfizer or Coca-Cola.

I want to be a "hobbyist."

 

Clearly, I’m light years behind my compatriots in that, for one thing, I have never crossed the threshold of Hobby Lobby. I only venture into Michael’s under duress. I do not have my own Etsy shop.

 

And yet, I love the IDEA of hobbies. I yearn to plunge headlong into an “interest,” something creative, maybe something collectible. My dear friend Marda, who has soared far beyond hobbyist into the realm of true artist, speaks of the satisfaction she finds in her home studio, crafting for the pure joy of it. Like me as a writer, she loses herself in the process, and emerges, dazed but delighted, with a finished product. Only hers is something beautiful you can hold and put on your mantel, whereas mine exists completely on the printed page. You can wear Marda’s lovely handmade jewelry; my artistry resides (if I’m lucky) on your bedside table.

 

Turns out, the hobby options are numerous. Just to name a few, there’s beetle fighting (?) and dirt polishing (??), also coin/stamp collecting (both deemed the King of Hobbies—which is it? They need to get their act together) and something called extreme ironing. No joke, these people iron clothes, in weird locales. I have a tough enough time ironing where God intended (on a board, in front of the TV). There are shell seekers and sea glass hunters and piano dabblers. It seems to me that almost anything a person does in their spare time can be labeled a “hobby.” So perhaps my haphazard housekeeping, that periodic “fluff and dust” occurring just before we have company, qualifies? My hobby is…occasional vacuuming?

 

Nah. Hobbies are fun! Hobbies are shareable! Hobbies involve working with polymer clay and tiny plastic googly eyes and watercolor pens, or they are activities (solo or group) such as the faddish pickleball (which, though the name been explained to me, I will always picture as hitting a sour dill across a court) Hobbies, by definition, cannot be livelihoods; for instance, my psychiatrist would never call his adventure in psychotherapy with me his “hobby”(at least I hope he doesn’t).  I’d hate to hire a “hobbyist” lawyer or plumber, because they are just messing around, right? I want a serious pastor, darn it! Not someone who enjoys Googling “spirituality” between customers at Sonic. 

 

It seems that “hobbies” must be both dedicated pastimes AND lighthearted amusements. My mom Joanie was drummed out of the Hobby Corps early on, because she was the worst of both worlds—she was not having fun, nor did she take her pursuits seriously. Her  unfinished dècoupage projects littered the family room for years, and her hooked rug remained eternally semi-hooked. Even late in life, Mom briefly took up, then abandoned, whichever crafts caused the most mess.

 

But I am different. My hobby will be cute, tidy and also intellectually challenging! 

 

I’m leaning towards pistachio art.