having fun.

I’ve been thinking about something a friend told me last weekend, something her mother says. Fun is a new thing. We were talking about how we answer the question, What do you do for fun? We live in a time, place, generation, socio-economic status, etc. that makes room for that question.

I get bogged down in the philosophical questions of life. I mean, I get bogged. down. What do I do for fun? What is fun? What is the purpose of fun? What is the PURPOSE OF LIFE? Etc. Suffice it to say, I never know how to answer the question, What do you do for fun? I write, and though I’m trying to embrace some of Elizabeth Gilbert’s big magic, it still seems like a stretch to call writing fun. I read. I run (although not lately) (and it’s more the idea of running is fun than the actual running). Like every freaking person my age, I watch TV sometimes via Netflix and Hulu and Amazon and HBO. I cook and think about food. I go for walks.

It all feels pretty generic and vague to me. I’ve been having this urge lately to develop real, actual hobbies. I’ve spent the last 6 months working on my professional bio, but I don’t have a personal bio, and I don’t even know what it would say. I want to have specific interests, things I get really jazzed about, things I want to talk and talk about. Or maybe I already have them, but they’re not clearly defined in my own mind and I don’t own them as me.

I love the On Being podcast (probably my favorite podcast), and I also subscribe to their blog and newsletter. Awhile ago they sent a survey out to their subscribers to help them understand their audience. It asked questions about what content you like or don’t like, your own religious and political beliefs, your background, etc. And then up came this question: What groups do you belong to? (religious groups, community groups, clubs, etc.)

That question stopped me dead. That was at least a month ago, and I’m still thinking about it. I couldn’t come up with a group to put down. I couldn’t think of a thing that I belonged to. Finally I wrote in the name of the school where I’m taking online graduate classes, but even that felt like a stretch. Because the real answer was that I don’t belong to any groups. I still don’t know why, exactly, but it really really bothered me.

Anyway, here I am. I was thinking tonight that this little place where I’ve been writing into the internet void has to mean something. It has to mean something, right? Because I’ve been coming here for four years now and writing my bleeding, navel-gazing heart out. It must mean something. I could’ve written all this in a notebook. I could have deleted it. But it’s here. Still, I haven’t ever tried to turn this blog into something with a following. Which means that many words I write here get shot into space and never reach another person. It’s weird and confusing. Why am I here? I honestly don’t know, but it must mean something. Because I don’t want to stop.

I’m thinking about what I’ll resolve to do next year. I’m considering a few big resolutions, changes that need a bit of structure to them. I’m wrapping up a big project that will evolve into something new and exciting. I’m trying to be back here more as the year closes. Like last year, it starts to feel urgent to be here often, to furiously write out this nonsense. The new year is starting to haunt me, like it always does.