I don’t have hobbies, I have pretensions
A month or so ago, I was having dinner with a couple of friends and I said that a mutual acquaintance didn’t ‘have hobbies, he had pretensions’. The statement landed with a certain degree of aplomb, and I take a certain pride when I deliver statements that sound worthy of a Sorkins screenplay. However, this memory has stuck in the back of my head over the last few weeks, much longer than the usual self-laudatory recollection, until it dawned on me that I was projecting.
Aside from my regular occupation, many things take up my waking hours. Much of it is essential to my survival, and when pursued beyond basics can be construed as a hobby, such as eating (practiced cooking) or exercising (competitive sports). Meriam-Webster defines hobby as “a pursuit outside one’s regular occupation engaged in especially for relaxation”. I don’t pursue these beyond the essential, or engage in these especially for relaxation, so hobbies they are not.
When I have large pieces of free time, I often spend them with friends or family, doing an assortment of activities. In these instances however, it isn’t so much the activity that matters, but the people with whom I partake. Further to this point, I doubt I play board games or basketball seriously enough to constitute a hobby, and likely take drinking a little too seriously to constitute a hobby.
However, a hobby doesn’t necessitate solitude. Dance, bowling, and role-playing games are all classic examples of hobbies. Here I’d like to delineate further by arguing that a hobby should in fact be somewhat engaging, or at least by the Merriam-Webster definition, involve a pursuit of some sort. This differentiates a hobby from a pastime, which Messiers M and W have articulated as: “something that amuses and serves to make time pass agreeably”, hence making it more idle and passive.
Much of my time is spent on pastimes, shorter in nature, though no less frequent in occurrence. These include aimless scrolls through social media, mindless watches of YouTube videos, and pointless plays of video games. They require no exertion of any sort on my part, but can somehow command all of my attention. These pastimes generate enough inertia that I can spend hours on end at their behest, but when finally wrenched from their grasp, cause me to feel vaguely disgusted with myself for having spent hours with them instead of with people or activities I value. I am as much as their beck and call as they are at mine. That is a problem for another essay, but it suffices to say that these pastimes are far from hobbies.
So after subtracting all the necessary, social, and productive activities from the sum of my free time, what is left? Just as subconsciously feared, I am faced with my pretensions. I read novels, I watch films, and I write little ditties like this where I employ words and belles tournures de phrases that are either unsuitable, unnecessary, or incorrect.
Why are these pretensions instead of hobbies? To start, reading a book, or watching a movie aren’t always mindful pursuits. Everyone reads something everyday, and puts on Netflix a few times a week. These activities only become hobbies when they are performed with intent. I take pride in thinking about what I read and watch. A notepad accompanies me while I’m consuming the content, and then I devour secondary sources about the material when I’m done, usually opinion pieces and video essays. I review clips and passages, and try to compare my understanding with what is already out there. The problem then, is that I take too much pride in doing so.
If a hip-hop dancer learns a new choreography, or a bowler scores a spare after a split, they take joy in improving their technique and gain a sense of accomplishment from doing so. This mindful enjoyment is derived in addition to a sense of pleasure from moving to music or triumphing over opponents, which would be the only thing a non-hobbyist would obtain.
When I started reading books and watching movies long ago, it was this initial pleasure from an exhilarating plot, moving character, and inspiring themes that kept me coming back. The improvement in vocabulary and media comprehension were secondary, only appreciated when they enabled to to enjoy something that I was previously unable to understand.
In the last few years however, when I finished reflecting on a book or movie, my sense of happiness and accomplishment began increasingly to be derived from the material as an end instead of a means. I was proud of what I had read and watched not because how they made me feel, but because I had completed them.
Most recently, I read The Plague and watched Donnie Darko. And though I enjoyed both of them, it would be a stretch to say that I understood Camus’ references to existentialism, or caught anything Kelly tried to convey but teenage angst. If these works had no accolades , I would have given up halfway through. And if I only understood half as much of it as I should have, I only enjoyed it a quarter as I probably should have.
And so why do I continue spending my time like this? On something I not only find tiring, but also cannot apprehend. This is why it is a pretension, something that Merriam-Webster define as: “an allegation of doubtful value” or “an aspiration or intention that may or may not reach fulfillment”. When I tell people that I have read The Plague or watched Donnie Darko, I am simultaneously alleging that I enjoy sophisticated oeuvres such as this, and I aspire to enjoy comparable works in the future.
Recognizing the existence of a problem is the first step to recovery. What’s next? Simpler books and more enjoyable movies, but just as pretentious writing. I’ll make a hobby out of them yet.
