Is Joy a Side Hustle?

I don’t want my kids to have to throw away a lot when I die, and yet I keep buying fabric and yarn. I realize that sentence implies that I am 120 years old. I’m 57. I just have a lot of fabric and yarn, and some ideas that aren’t going to reshape the universe, but they’re fun. And yet I put conditions on when I can do these fun things. I make myself do “productive” things first. 

Like:

• Laundry
• Writing a to-do list
• Contacting that someone on email, to remind them that I’m still around lest they want to hire me to do something valuable that generates no revenue.
• Moving obstacles from the roomba’s path
• Maybe deciding where a picture should be hung
• Moving above picture to lean against the wall where it will be hung
• Not actually hanging the picture due to lack of proper hanging tools
• Putting “buy proper hanging tools” on the to-do list.

These are some of the productive things that have to come first because, apparently, according to me, I have to earn joy. 

Earn joy.

According to me, I have to prove myself worthy of joy? 

Is joy a side hustle, not the main gig?

There are bumper stickers that declare “Don’t postpone joy.” I see them while I do productive things like going to the car wash after buying picture hanging accessories. I agree with them, and get mad at them all at once. I don’t want to postpone joy. I want to find it in the most unexpected and mundane places, per the bumper stickers’ instructions. I want to marvel at the dance of the car wash bristles and the impressionistic squiggles of soap. I want to delight in the Jackson Pollock-esque splat of bird poop centered perfectly on my sun roof moments after leaving the car wash. I want to dare to eat a peach even as it falls from the pit into my lap causing me to worry more about the peach’s impact on my outfit rather than my impact on the car in front of me. I want to prioritize joy, but sometimes things piss me off.

Sometimes it’s too hot to feel joy.

Sometimes home repairs are too expensive to dally in joy.

Sometimes a job is a job and not a joy.

Sometimes a bird shits on your car after you spent $25 on a carwash and there’s no silver lining

Sometimes it feels selfish to languish in joy when there are things that need to get done.

So, I postpone joy. It goes to the bottom of the to-do list. It’s still on the to-do list, but more important stuff needs to come first like:

• Calling my Senator
• Caulking something in the house
• Returning that jumpsuit to Amazon
• Bundling my streaming services
• Drinking more water
• Reading something important
• Cleaning the air conditioner filters
• Complimenting my husband
• Meal planning
• Reaffirming my relevance
• Brushing the dogs’ teeth

And way at the bottom of the list is

• Work on that Star Wars quilting square

It’s at the bottom because it doesn’t advance civilization. It doesn’t move the needle. It does not provide a safety net for my children. It is not in any way shape or form important in the grand scheme of things. It simply brings me joy. Something I wish we all felt we deserve more of. It’s not something to be earned, but something that deserves a place on the to-do list. Or, better yet, it needs to be on the must-do list, which also includes breathe, eat, love, live (take that Elizabeth Gilbert).

I know that a quilted Star Wars Wall Hanging will not move the needle. It will likely wind up in a thrift shop like old nightgowns, second string trays, or all those piles of old pictures that, while posing in front of that pretty rock, no one thought would one day be sold for a prop piece in a regional theater production of Brighton Beach Memoirs. But the act of choosing which fabrics go with which Star Wars characters filled me with joy, and might be fun for someone to look at. And hopefully the memory of that will bring my sons joy when they clean out my fabric cabinet, and remind them of their must-do list.

Han Shot First

Han shot first.

He did.

To say he didn’t, to re-edit in order to soften completely undermines his redemption at the end when he comes back to help Luke. 

This got me thinking about how we edit our lives all the time. I can’t speak for the universal We, though, that is a presumption I am trying to shed. But I know I edit my story  to make it palatable for public consumption, or, more specifically, to make myself more palatable for public consumption. Here is some tangible proof:

• I do not post the selfies that highlight my aging neck. For example…Not too long ago, in the wee hours of the morning, my one year old pup, who is an awkward cuddler, managed to curl himself around my head as we tried falling back to sleep on the couch after an early morning pee, for both of us. It was adorable beyond the nth degree. So, I tried to snap a selfie without disturbing him. But it proved quite challenging to memorialize his cuteness while striving for mine. I quickly discovered that, at this age, when I lie down there is no distinction between my neck and my chin; my neck kind of billows out gelatinously like a Mad Max character. The first few pictures were not just a crime of photographic composition, but also a crime to my waning ego. So I moved the camera, I angled my head impossibly, I jutted my chin out, I tried to highlight the cheek with fewer blemishes, I tried with glasses on, with glasses off. I knew I’d never equal the cuteness of the pup, but I was trying to find a happy medium between that and Mad Max. I ultimately abandoned it altogether, because I could not find the balance.  I should have gone with the original picture, because Han shot first.

• I say “that book’s on my list.” And it is, but I don’t say that I probably won’t read it because the next book in the Her Royal Spyness series just came out. Just like I keep telling people that I will watch Succession and The Last of Us, but instead I binge Brooklyn Nine-Nine, The New Girl and How I Met Your Mother because they make me feel good. I want to strive for enlightenment, but I also want to relax and laugh and watch Jess & Nick finally get together. But I’m not gonna tell you that, because I want you to think that I’m striving for enlightenment. I should just tell you that my taste runs shallow, because Han shot first.

• I like👍more Facebook and Instagram posts than I actually like. Like, way more. Because I don’t want to be an ass hole. More accurately, I don’t want to be perceived as an ass hole. But, sometimes, I’m as interested in your cat pictures as you are in my dog pictures. But I keep hitting like or love, because, of course, I want you to like or love me, and that little blue thumb will definitely tip the scales in my favor. I should just like or love the things on social media that I actually like and love, because, you’re not keeping track, and Han shot first.

• I say “It’s fine,” or “I’m fine,” or “It’s ok,” or “I’m ok.” The reality is ‘it’ and ‘I’ am not fine or ok. When I say that, I’m probably either mad, or annoyed or crushed. But I say I’m fine in an effort to read the room or the moment, or weigh who, you or me, is closer to  the breaking point. And then I go into another room to either do the thing I’m ‘ok’ with, or escape the agreement I’m ‘fine’ with, and busy myself while muttering all of the things I’m not ‘fine’ or ‘ok’ with. Or I go somewhere to cry so you don’t see why I’m not ‘fine’ or ‘ok.’ I should just tell you I’m not ‘fine’ or ‘ok,’ because Han shot first.

• I rid my car of the empty Diet Coke bottles before I pick you up because I don’t want you to know I drink Diet Coke…or how much of it I drink. Because you drink water or kombucha, or tea, or Pellegrino, or just something infinitely healthier, and I don’t want you to know how gross I am. Or weak. Or unenlightened. Or gross. So I gather the bottles in my cup holders. And the ones in the door cup holders. And the ones rolling around on the floor of the back seat. And the front seat. I do responsibly toss them in the recycling, before I give you a ride anywhere. I should still clean out my car, but I should just drink my Diet Coke in front of you, because Han shot first.

He did. Because he is imperfect. To claim otherwise, shows a shocking lack of trust in audiences and in all human beings. As do all of my edits. The ones above only scratch the surface. And worse than not trusting all of you, is not trusting myself. Not owning and loving my imperfections. Not trusting that I will know when to limit my Diet Coke intake, and be brave enough to tell you I’m not ‘fine’ or ‘ok,’ and know that you don’t ultimately care if I acknowledge your social media post, or admit I like sitcoms, or just suck it up and post my billowing neck because you’re really only looking at the puppy. Han knew when to come back and help Luke blow up the Death Star. He just didn’t trust he could until he found the people who revealed to him that he was worth trusting himself for, and trusting himself with. Because it takes a village who loves you enough to let you be who you are, and loves you enough to call you on your shit when you’re ready to hear it and even when you’re not but you say you’re ‘ok.’ 

Edits can be good. We are all first and second and 33rd drafts, but the best edits are the ones that reveal an authentic, unfiltered, true to the moment story full of imperfections and trust.

I am an imperfect scoundrel, who will try to reduce my unnecessary edits, and I will show up to help you defeat whatever your Death Star is, and my Millennium Falcon will have Diet Coke in the cup holder, because Han shot first.