Well, it’s offfical. My hobbies went Hoffa when I wasn’t looking.
Skiing used to be a favorite hobby, but the idea of hurtling out of control down the side of a mountain became something of a redundant undertaking after I fell in love with an Irish girl whose family history made the Royal Tenenbaums look like the Brady Bunch in comparison. And the breakup would’ve made Vinko Bogataj wince. Mid fall no less.
Cooking is something I do all the time. But I hesitate to call anything that must be done in order to survive a hobby. I read all the time too, but that’s because the voices in my head are such damned good storytellers.
I’m a Netflix junkie because it keeps me home and I love sex because it gets me out. Those are hobbies, I guess. And believe me, I am well aware of what happens if I combine these two hobbies. It’s called . . . a relationship.
Running has been my one true hobby from singledom to marriage to kids, house, dog and back to singledom. To say a lot has changed in the interim is to say that John Madden needs to eat a spinach salad once in a while.
My running went from red letter to dead letter last summer. April May and June were fantastic and then July came along and took my sole with an official diagnosis of Plantar Fascitis. I shut it down for the rest of the year, and took up Sudoko in its place. It was the lousiest trade since the Mets gave up Tom Seaver.
As for this running season, so far has proven to be so good. But it occurs to me that should I have to ease off the gas pedal, I’m gonna have to grab a new hobby and quick. I thought about cycling since it’s much easier on the cranky parts of my body. But I don’t dig helmets and all the uniformity that goes with the sport.
As far as golfing is concerned, I’m afraid I would have to take up murder as a side hobby if I invested any real time in the activity. Boating seems like great fun, but most definitely not something I could ever engage in as a recreation. Well, I could, but my stomach would need to be stored in a lock-box.
Bowling is something I would do in lieu of competitive eating. Walking is something I do in order to remain employed, socially relevant and a father. Motorcycles would be a last resort for me, as in a post-apocalyptic means of transportation.
Fishing is a fine hobby. Problem is, it works in tandem with beer so effectively as to cancel out the need for fishing in the first place. Same goes for softball.
The verdict then? Yoga. It possesses all the requisites for a grown Catholic boy. Pain, angst and most importantly . . guilt. So if my heel decides to go all Pale Rider on me again, I’m gonna have backup.
Agony of De-Feet be damned.