You know how in any new social situation someone inevitably asks you what sort of hobbies you enjoy? I hate this question. I don’t want to be a loser and admit that any free time I come upon is spent reading fashion magazines or eating Ben and Jerry’s while watching reruns of Buffy the Vampire Slayer, so usually I lie. My stock answer is that I am passionate about hiking. The truth is that I grew up with a grandfather who was as passionate about hiking as I am about Johnny Depp. The minute I was old enough to find something better to do on “hiking Saturdays” I escaped this ritual (although to be fair, it might have been his death defying driving that turned me off on these outings as much as the actual hiking). So, somewhere deep inside I have hiking genes (probably being crushed by my mom’s obsession-with-Egyptology genes) so I don’t really feel like this is a 100 percent lie.
Most of my real hobbies would have to do with a couch. Can you be a couch potato if you don’t watch TV on said couch? What if you are just reading a trashy novel or updating your fantastic blog. Maybe there are different degrees of couch-potatoeness. For example, someone who wakes up in the morning and immediately is glued to the Home Shopping Network every day is a huge-gigantic Idaho russet couch potato, whereas I am really more of a tiny new couch potato that you would roast gently in the oven with some rosemary and olive oil.
So, here I am coming clean about a deep dark secret again. I have no interesting hobbies. I don’t craft or sew, or do wood work. I don’t play any instruments (not for lack of trying, I just always seemed to have commitment issues with whatever instrument I was trying). And I don’t volunteer as a tour guide at the local art museum. I just kind of sit around in my free time. Wow, this blog is better than a confession box.