The Dissection of Idleness, and Recommendations for its Replacement: by Tom Johnston

The Dissection of Idleness, and Recommendations for its Replacement

By Tom Johnston

If the past year and a half has taught me anything, it’s that I can always be making better use of my time. After such a long suspension of responsibility it’s only fair that I should come away with something to show for it, right? Why haven’t I learned a new skill, or volunteered more, or finally gotten around to all those home improvements I had planned?

Sometimes, I like to imagine that I had a more productive year in quarantine. I picture a very distant (and very loaded) relative, previously unheard of, who leaves me a small fortune that I can do what I like with. Not an unrealistic inheritance—just enough to bribe the threat of serious illness or death into keeping its distance.

I imagine what it might be like if I took up sailing in the warm summer months, the wind in the air and sting of saltwater on my cheek. Think of how useful that would be when they ground all the flights and I need to cross the Atlantic. Learning the ropes, I would form such a strong bond with whichever ten Matthews frequented the same marina as I did. I wouldn’t be stuck in my own house, learning to appreciate the unrelenting string of calm mornings. I could continue to avoid my older sister even after she came home to live with us again, dodging the Saturday’s when we would waste our time making lattes and breakfast and participating in each other’s lives. Those things would disintegrate. The pointless connection I might’ve made with another person would vanish, yielding itself to the grandeur of my admiral’s career.

And that’s not the only thing I’d have my fortune teach me. I’ve lost track of how many nights I spent this year with my real friends. In those days when you had to make an effort to stay in someone else’s life, how many evenings did I waste staying up late and talking to the same people I’ve been talking to for years now, the people that I’ve already learned? What if, instead, I could have focused some sum of money and all those hours learning something valuable, like fencing. I can picture it, the dance of the back-and-forth as I swing at a wire mesh man. It’s hard to treasure the excitement of finally seeing the people you love again when I know now that I should have been doing more with my time, that I should have been doing something useful. If I could afford the white canvas armour which would keep me safe from foils and viruses, maybe it might protect me from all those pseudo-long-distance relationships, too. Most fencers that I know say that they use what they’ve learned every day. I can’t imagine it would be nearly as fulfilling to spend time with other people so frequently.

But at least that was me wasting my time on others, so that maybe they got something out of it. I have no defense for all the time and ink that I drained away putting pen to paper. I spent a year discovering and nurturing a passion for words, of all things—and what good does it do to fill so many notebooks and PDFs with silly poems and stories that will never touch anyone? Imagine how much more fulfilled I might feel if I had spent that time learning a real art. I can see myself memorizing the two step and the waltz (prerequisite skills for attending any of those fabulous galas or balls which raise so much money for the already-wealthy, which have of course continued to run even while the rest of the world is cooped up in their cages).

A noble pursuit it would’ve been, to have participated in the ancient dances which have remained unchanged for centuries. At the very least, it would’ve been much more worthwhile than trying to grow some new art out of the landscape of my own mind. No one will ever care for that, and all it’s done is leave me with a clearer picture of my own self.

Really, I’m ashamed to admit how much I’ve completely squandered this block of free time. My lack of money and motivation have kept me from doing anything that might’ve actually helped me—underwater cotillion, white-tie falconry, polo tennis, high stakes political lobbying, or any number of other marketable résumé bullet points. Instead, all I was left to do was pick myself a bouquet of flowers and set them up in a thrift store vase in my room. What am I ever going to do with the memory of summer colours lining a walking trail down the road from my house? With the knowledge that a few stems are all it takes to make me happy for a moment?