Coming through a little fuzzy

I had a conversation a few weeks ago with a friend who had also recently graduated in which she commented that we didn’t have any hobbies . I thought about it and was forced to agree. Everything I can chalk up as a hobby falls into the banal (running, reading, travel, friends), sub-catogories in my major (domestic politics, international politics, comparative politics), “likes” (dresses, cheese, colorful shoes, spicy food), or deliberately quirky and obscure (haploid maps of the world, looking for cheap flights, bad makeup videos on youtube, improbable currency unions). I don’t think any of that ultimately says much about me.

There was a time when I had proper, concrete hobbies but I think since early adolescence I’ve defined myself in a community-based way. I am what I mean to people. I am the composite of these social roles and relationships. Every interaction with a friend reflects us back at ourselves.

It’s not the same as being 13 and having angsty conversations with yourself about who you are. There’s no tense internal struggle. It’s also not about trying to find my place in the world. It’s more like looking at my hand underwater or feeling like I could melt into a fog or disappear in a Tokyo crowd. It isn’t a bad feeling, it’s sort of vague and pleasant, but it still leaves me with the impression that I am redrawing the line between who I am and who I’m not with every statement I make, including the ridiculous (“I was really obsessed with the Basques in middle school French”) and mundane (“I always eat breakfast.”). Each post I write is a piece of a definition. Maybe it’s just that this level of introspection is really new to me.

The closest parallel I can think of is this: if you ever had a point in your life where you thought something you do now was a big deal, or something you’d never do, think back to that. Then think of the first time you did it. Maybe it was waking up hung over the second weekend in September your freshman year of college, and thinking, “oh, I am someone who gets drunk.” Or “I am someone who can drive.” “I am someone who is married.” “I am someone who has an apartment.” And then that just becomes part of everyday life and you stop thinking about it, but there was a moment when you had to reconceptualize yourself to fit in the new bit of who you are.

Maybe adults do this all the time, or maybe they define themselves by what they do or who they love. Or maybe people don’t have the time or energy for this degree of introspection.