Commitment. What is that like? I've never stuck with anything long enough as hard as I've tried, or had something in my life I was so addicted to I couldn’t be without it. A few vices, yes, but addictions, no.
Okay, maybe gelato. Yes, gelato. I could tell you where all the best, most chocolate-y flavors are in Rome. Maybe that’s my “thing.”
Anyway, I digress, as is customary for the trajectory of my life.
There was the brief period I chopped off all my hair to "ward off men." And, I'll never forget how one man told me, "I think it's working." It's the only thing that's been semi-constant my entire life – how bold my hair choices have been.
I go through phases like the moon.
But, at least the moon usually shows up around the same time every night. Me on the other hand, I can’t commit to anything because who knows where the hell I’ll be – I’m always late. I can never commit to being on time; I never know where I’m headed next. Maybe lateness is my constant. Can that be a hobby? It should be.
I've been a dancer, a figure skater, a gymnast. And oh yes, tried my hand at many a backhand in my day, but still can't hold my own in a game of doubles. I'm great at hitting the bright yellow balls onto the lawn or even into the forest. Is that a sport? It should be. I would definitely win all the awards for long-distance-felt-ball-striking.
Then there was that one time a man broke my heart and I thought I had the magical cure-all: painting!
The only conundrum: acrylics or oils? I landed on acrylics, because, you guessed it – less of a commitment. Oils mean you must prepare for paint to semi-permanently be everywhere – hair, nails, clothes, walls – thus forever committing you to the lifestyle of a tortured artist. Too scary.
But, I bought an easel and everything and now have nowhere to store it in my 500 square foot studio apartment. So I leave it out on the kitchen counter with no artwork on display to remind myself how much I fail to see things through.
Hopefully I've managed to focus long enough so that this story, or rather angry self-directed tirade, will have an ending.
Now, we arrive at improv. Oh yes, a dear favorite of mine. I learned to be unafraid of failure by being onstage with other goofballs. It will always be near to my heart. Never went anywhere, sadly. And neither did I.
And, how could I forget the stretch of years I half-lived in basement bars trying to "make it" as a comedienne? I survived many an open mic night, battered from beating bright lights and the pitying laughter of plump, bearded gentleman chasing the same highs. The heckles still haunt me, like my knack for wandering. But, I still think I'm better for it.
I go through hobbies like I've gone through men, enjoying them briefly and finding some semblance of reprieve, then tossing them aside when something quirkier, shinier peaks my interest.
Pilates? I need to be ripped! Let's do it.
Yoga? Sure, why not. Everyone could use more zen in their lives. Sign me up! I've had a yoga mat collecting dust under my bed that is dying for some downward dog to grace its rippled surface. And that, unfortunately, is not a euphemism.
I flit and flit from one thing to another like a hummingbird flap, flap, flapping its tiny little ADD-trodden wings; bouncing around like a coked out punk rocker.
My self-help and intense therapy phase, let's not forget that. I think I told everyone in Hoboken, New Jersey about the power of The Power of Now and "mindfulness.” I couldn’t finish my praising thoughts though, because my mind started wandering again before I could even finish the book.
My mind believes in the power of doing anything else besides what I’m doing at any given moment.
I’m convinced I’m packed to the brim with abandonment issues, but I wonder how my hobbies feel when I abandon them?
At least I finished whatever this is. Well, writing is never done anyway, right?