Thursday, January 26, 2012

Earworms and biological clocks

It's a play on words, see?
I am pondering the condition known as "too much time on my hands."

I am pondering this sitting in a room next to at least 75 books I have not read. A few feet away is a guitar that I play so rarely I have no calluses. I have an infinite number of browser tabs at my disposal to explore this new internet thing, a couple hundred satellite channels. And I haven't even opened my "Paparazzi" action figures playset that I got for Christmas. How is it, then, that there's a voice in my head - the voice of a whiny 12 year-old, it sounds like - that's saying "I have nothing to do."

This fits into the category of First World Problems - a category of conundrums we all "suffer" with - and by "all" I mean people like me, of course. Examples from this perspective-correcting site include:
  • “I’ve run out of obscure ethnic cuisines to impress my friends with.”
  • “My internet-capable fridge only connects to Twitter, and not Facebook.”
  • “The distance we are traveling is not far enough to heat up the seat heaters.”
Sadly, being part of the 99% and yet still ridiculously privileged on a relative scale does not solve the problem of "too much time on my hands." (I hope you are now enjoying the earworm I have given you and will be bouncing your head for hours to the strains of that wonderful melody from Styx's triple-platinum album "Paradise Theatre" which reached #9 on the US Billboard Hot 100, and #2 on the Top Rock Tracks chart for one week in 1981. No need to thank me.)

I seem to have lost the ability to "kick back," as the kids say. There was a time I could waste a day, or a year, and just enjoy it. This is not to say that reading a book, making some music, or creating clever scenarios for Paparazzi action figures are not examples of time well spent. But lately I feel this annoying need to "get something done" all the time. Something of impact, something meaningful. I cringe every time the thought of "killing some time" crosses my mind. (If there is an afterlife, my dad - who would have testified I was the laziest person ever born - must be laughing ruefully.)

Self-analysis tells me this need for perpetual action is fed by the ticking of my biological clock. In women, the biological clock refers to the eventual discovery "I am too old to have a baby." In men, it refers to the sudden realization "I am now dead." In both cases, one would hope to achieve one's goals before one's alarm sounds.

1 comment:

Anonymous said...

Does this "Too Much Time on My Hands" concept have any relation to your recent Facebook post asking peoplet to describe their sex life with a movie title (in this case, a song title?) If so, sorry. Really.