In Defense Of The Frivolous

It’s a weird thing to wake up in your forties, in the thick of raising kids, and wonder when the last time was that you did something frivolous. Something for you, not because it moves you toward some achievement, but just… because.

As a family, we carve out time for relaxation and walks on the beach and ice cream cones at sunset—some of the time. We make funny home videos with the kids and play mini-golf and go on vacations—some of the time. And I love that frivolity in my life, but it lacks the carefree abandon from before we had kids, and even before I was married.

When I lived in Boston in my twenties, I used to take walks for hours, at all times of day and night. The only rule: Do my best to not walk down a familiar street. I’d get lost on both sides of the Charles River, and then have to find my way again. I loved the surprises and discoveries that came with stumbling around a city. Looking back, I can’t think of anything more frivolous (and I recognize now what I didn’t then—that my blind faith in my own safety accompanied a privilege not everyone has).

It has been a long time since I could leave and walk for hours, with the intention of getting lost, and not be expected somewhere. And I miss the frivolity.

So I took a weekend just for me. I drove five hours to D.C. with a few loose goals in mind: write a ton (I know, an unspecified data point), walk a ton (again, not specific, but ended up being fifteen+ miles), catch a comedy show, maybe a movie (Argyle, which was fun but so stupid), and eat well.

My wife was supportive of this plan, and in the spirit of celebrating frivolity, I bought myself a bird pen from the bird house at the D.C. zoo, and it’s my new favorite thing.