Apparently we all need a past-time, but what happens when a hobby or interest rears its ugly head and becomes bad for you? I had to ask myself this question now that all my favourite past-times have passed me by.
My new favourite past-time is figuring out different scenarios where I get to punch the smug off Tony Jones’s face.
You might ask if my hobby was headbanging to some speed metal, seeing how long I can stand on my head or perhaps repeatedly running my noggin into a brick wall, but it was none of those things. You see, I enjoy yelling at the television. And unfortunately I got myself so gee-darned worked up – I was watching Q&A, don’t tell me that’s not the televisual equivalent of a red rag to a bull – that I must have busted some capillaries in my personal hat rack. Luckily I was watching it in bed and just crawled under the doona to leave my very left leaning husband to continue groaning every time the LNP panelist dare utter a word. But maybe it’s the start of my new favourite past-time, which is getting cranky at Tony Jones. That man is the most useless facilitator, with the most heightened air of self importance and misdirected smugness I have ever witnessed.
I’ve also recently given up voting on election day. I used to LOVE election day. I love the power we wield. Oh and the cake stalls and sausage sizzles ain’t bad. But…our polling booth at the local high school is a crap sandwich. Do not have me stand in line, in the sun for an hour, pretending to be interested in the flyer being pressed into my hand by the poor, deluded soul working for the Palmer United party, and then when I get out not even have one piece of coconut ice I can buy. You giant dingbats! So now I postal vote – whether I’m in town or not. Because I am not getting skin cancer just to vote, or find out there are no BBQed onions to enjoy at the end of that rigmarole.
Because I’m sure pulling out riding-up underpants and digging-in underwire makes you an AWESOME footy player.
My final favourite past-time got completely destroyed by the sisterhood I was trying to (non) heroically defend. At the races, I was arguing with a former workmate about how disgusting the Lingerie Football League was, and he was (not very convincingly) arguing that he was going to enjoy a night of sport and the ‘athleticism’ of the participants. I indignantly insisted he wouldn’t be attending if it weren’t for the ‘uniforms’ the players were required to ‘wear’ while playing, which made him a sexist pig and why did so many sports being played by women require them to end up in skimpy outfits that were completely impractical for the activity they were engaging in? Feeling pretty smug and satisfied at my participation in my favourite hobby of the feminist rant and with a captive audience no less, three ladies from our group stumbled up, fascinators askew, to gleefully inform the entire group that there were male shirtless waiters over in another marquee ‘that you wouldn’t kick out of bed for farting’. Thank you, sisters. My former workmate said these could be the new recruits to my blue stocking brigade. Oh shut up, boofhead. Feminist rant smugness and self-righteousness OVAH.
What past times have you had to give up and why?
It's Claire as mud 
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