I've grown quite familiar with occupying myself.
Even with a lot of time, it never feels like enough. Has nothing to do with the quarantine, because it really hasn't given me more time, like some people in a similar socio-economic class keep suggesting it has for everyone. I'm assuming that they have been characterizing "time" in this trite manner due to their previously active lifestyles outside of the home and their jobs (socializing, hobbies, religious practices, educational or recreational classes). None of these parenthetical things were things I particularly relied on the outside life for, except the gym that I was only committed to once a week; three on a good week (the fact that I am thinking about the gym while writing this means I think of the gym as a hobby? Huh).
I suppose most others have a lengthy commute, where they must step outside and use time. Without a roundtrip commute, I'm only saving 30 minutes, which I use to sleep in-- still not a lot of time. Although, I did have the occasional outdoor errands. But so did everyone else who needed to make time to do them. For instance, I frequented Trader Joe's for groceries at least twice a week (because I adopted the non-American style of shopping ever since I moved to New York). Some people need to go get their laundry done. But I live in an apartment that has an in-unit washer and dryer (#1 on my must-have list for city apartment living after four years paying my dues at a laundromat). Elite enough to arrange my life to have more time to myself and less spontaneous time for others. Like I said before, the modest request for the life I wanted for myself by 30, five years ago, is where I am. I now question if it was truly modest, or if others' life dreams are just extravagant.
Yet it is never enough. Why is that?
