Michael the III Needs A Hobby

It’s something I’ve heard before. Maybe you’ve heard it yourself, too. It’s predictable—complain one too many times about being bored and you’ll hear: “get a hobby.” Ask too many personal questions and “you should find a hobby.” Spam a random Twitter account over three days because you don’t like what they’ve said about your favourite musician and you may get suspended. You’ll really need a hobby then.

2020 and the expanse beyond—to say something pleasant—has been loaded with hobby success stories: one loaf of photogenic focaccia you’ll never make again; that time Mary-Kate Olsen ‘liked’ your “What Does Your Blanket Say About You” TikTok entry; and best of all, reconnecting with your cat, bookshelf, and plants. But if you’re looking for something more long term, there are questions potential hobbyists must ask themselves. First, what do you like to do? Are you interested in virtual group work, or happy to hobby alone in the nook under your basement stairs? Do you crave competition, or take first place in running from it? What skills, if any, do you wish to develop? Would physical activity raise your serotonins or does it only leave you smelly?

I’ll tell you what I won’t be doing with my free time: any activity requiring extreme endurance, prolonged teamwork, or that which labels me a “daredevil.” I understand the appeal of activities such as sky-diving, hockey, jiu jitsu, and mountaineering. Falling to the earth without so much as a splat, doing anything on ice that isn’t alcoholic, being able to do the splits, and scaling the world’s tallest mountains are no small achievements, and I applaud all who have done so, but my mind is made up on this. They’ll have to go.

You can forget about boxing, white water rafting, rugby and bull fighting, too. I’ll do hula-hooping, baton-twirling, and lawn games. And if I really must, I’ll take an online Zumba class. I don’t think I’ll ever be comfortable with a hobby that, at any moment, might result in a high-five. Fantasy Football is where I draw the line, more a game of prediction than a test of endurance. Its participants are given no more responsibility than to draft a team, sit back, and watch. The rules are simple: when one of your players performs well on the field (in real life), you get points (in the game). This gamification can be taken to other fields as well. Why not “Fantasy Riverdance,” “Fantasy British Bake Off,” or “Fantasy YouTuber Drama?” How about “Fantasy Filmmaking?” The task is to produce a film using only Golden Globe nominees. Or what about fashion, whose fans are as avid and bloodthirsty as footballers come season-time? First we select a roster for our Fantasy Fashion conglomerate. Then we await the season’s best and worst, as measured by Robin Givhan’s unequivocal reviews.

I’d prefer to pick a productive past-time. If I cannot physically hold the fruits of my leisurely labour, it had better be something I can brag about at future parties. I would absolutely adore being regarded as a basket-weaver, a soap-maker, an embroiderer, or a calligraphic artist. Imagine how improved the denouement of a relationship might be if you were able to leave behind a goodie basket offering a range of broken heart-shaped soaps, a linen handkerchief that reads “It was nice getting to know you,” and a touching note (handwritten on handmade paper, no less) that officially ends things forever. I imagine a skill such as flower arranging would be similarly useful in times when a basket has been gifted pre-maturely. We all make mistakes!

Stamp collecting is out. Attaining every hobby, all at once is in. An average day might play out like this: Rise at four to check on the urban chicken coop. Then, like the amateur barista you are, pour your latte art into the glass-blown vessel you forged the evening prior. It’s still hot. Outside it is cold, so you find some of the knitwear you created at your last Knit-a-Thon Zoom party where you and several other home-knitters purled yourselves into a state of deep group hypnosis. Nineteen hours later you made a sweater. The sun peeks out and you begin journaling, which soon evolves into joke-prep for tomorrow’s open mic night. It’d better be good, your mom is bringing her Tai Chi class, which funnily enough, brings you to the family tree you’ve been trying to solve. You’re stuck at the parentage of one of your favourite progenitors: a part-time cobbler, just like you. When finally it is time for work, you arrive via the art of well-practiced parkour. At lunch you tend to lace-work and plot the course for your next mushroom-hunting girls trip, and your 15-minute breaks are used as opportunities to meditate or sing karaoke, depending on the mood. Dinner requires your cooking skills, which you’ve got, but being an avid knife-thrower has all but emptied your drawers of this most necessary tool. You choose instead to bake a rewarding and nutritious asparagus-croquembouche, no cutting required. Before you are finished eating, it is time for improving your archery skills, and getting to work on that documentary film you’ve got going. Not the short one about your love for gardening, the long one about trees. Later, since your needlepointing isn’t going to needlepoint itself, you go to the sewing room where you find the neglected throw pillows onto which you plan to iron-on your favourite celebrity missteps. You should have had it completed hours ago. Stress sets in, and you decide to hide the evidence in your closet, setting your unfinished work above the boxes of craft supplies, below the many forgotten video games you'll play one day soon. The urge to reorganize overcomes you, but if there's one thing you've learned from studying natural history alongside David Attenborough, it’s that meddling with the balance of life is a risk. You resist, but reinstate a single Bottega Veneta heel you found out of place. Suddenly, the entirety of your shoe collection, plus an open game of chess, falls at your feet. You look down at the pile of LEGOs and model train toys underfoot. Out falls the canoe, and your tuba, too. Remember the summer you were an equestrian? Now the horse falls out too, right onto your baby toe.

I could put an end to all of this indecision by announcing my debut as the newest, most fashionable bird-watcher on this side of the equator, but where I live—among pigeons—I’m more like the newest, most fashionable bird-watcher crouched and shrieking on the side of the street. Blame it on the germaphobia, because while I obsess over most birds, I’ll do anything to avoid coming into contact with a flying pigeon. From afar, I can find them cute. I often remind myself they’re basically doves in casual clothing, but I’d avoid an airborne dove too. If one day I scream at your wedding, I’m sorry, but I can’t handle a pigeon.

Indignity in hobbies should be avoided. Imagine how awful it must be to have the ugliest quilt in the group chat. I avoid jealousy if I can—I don’t like risk. My idea of gambling is throwing caution to the wind and saying, “get whatever you’d like on our pizza.” My ideal hobby, then, must be one of my own creation with great odds for success. Vintage shopping meets ghost-hunting? I’ve always wanted to know who might be lingering in my pockets. Magic Poker could work too. Combining the best of poker (winning) with the best of magic tricks (no one knowing how you did it). Doesn’t that sound perfect? Well, it’s not for you.

Paris Hilton, former menace to society turned part-time herpetologist, returns frogs to the water after hunting them. It’s inspired something I like to call...holographic herpetology! You may now keep turtles, tortoises, lizards, and amphibians without the guilt. These digital besties enjoy a warm lamp, Bossa Nova, Rooibos teas, Balenciaga, Telus commercials, and a sensible rock. And best of all, there are no cages needed, for their cages are in binary code.

Conventionally, hobbies land somewhere between work and leisure, combining low-stakes fun with the devotional participation required of work. But what if, instead, we recommend idle acts like binge-watching or sunbathing, activities that provide no reward or receipt, only the sneaking suspicion that you’ve seen that show before and irreparable sun damage. Just sit there, with nothing, achieve nothing. Be nothing. I didn’t find the hobby. The hobby found me.

Michael the III is a photographer, writer, model, and full-time hobbyist. His work has appeared in THEFINEPRINT, Gayletter, Document Journal and SSENSE.