As I write this in a coffee shop, my son is playing pinball at a friend’s birthday party at an arcade around the corner. I dropped him off in the dark room buzzing with neon and remembered something: I love pinball.
Or I did, a long time ago, back when I had hobbies. I think I even tried to “make” my own pinball machine as a kid, probably while singing along to the original cast recording of The Who’s Tommy, because I was also a Broadway musical buff. My simple life was full of activities back then. I loved reading, wrote poetry, did swim team, took voice lessons, started my own neighborhood bread-baking company using my mom’s countertop machine.
By college, I’d refined my image a bit. Whatever my résumé lacked in job experience, I tried to make up for in that cute, personable section at the bottom of the page, “Interests,” which was jammed full of hobbies that I hoped said a lot about Who I Was: The New York Times crossword, community children’s theater, choral singing—oh, and “David Mamet plays.” (My husband still gives me shit for that one.)
Then I found my career (easily, what joy!). Got married (young, what luck!). Had my two precious boys.