I don’t idle well.

Some people can sit on the couch, turn on Netflix, stare at the television for six hours, go to bed, and somehow feel like they had a perfectly acceptable day.

I cannot comprehend these people.

I assume they’re either extraordinarily well-adjusted or completely dead inside.

If I have absolutely nothing to do for more than about twenty minutes, some deeply defective part of my brain starts looking around like a Labrador that hasn’t been walked.

We should do something.

“No. We’re relaxing.”

Right. But while we’re relaxing, have you ever thought about building a NAS?

“No.”

What about converting the van into a camper?

“No.”

You could learn woodworking.

“Already did that.”

Laser engraving?

“Did that too. Leave me alone.”

Buy a boat?

“Goddammit.”

And that’s basically how my life works.

I am apparently incapable of simply having a hobby. A normal person discovers woodworking and thinks, “This is relaxing. I might make a cutting board.”

I start pricing commercial equipment and wondering whether there’s a viable Etsy business hidden in the scraps.

A normal person goes boating.

I buy a 36-year-old yacht that’s been sitting for three years and apparently decide that what my life was really missing was several thousand pounds of floating deferred maintenance.

A normal person uses a computer.

I decide Windows has personally offended me, install Linux, start hosting my own services, build a local AI, and somehow three days later I’m SSHing into a machine from another machine because apparently clicking an icon was insufficiently complicated.

This is not ambition. Ambition sounds respectable.

This is some kind of neurological inability to leave shit alone.

There is always another thing. Another project. Another idea. Another business opportunity. Another piece of equipment I absolutely did not know existed six hours ago but have now watched seventeen YouTube videos about and inexplicably have strong opinions on.

And here’s where it gets even dumber: I don’t always finish them.

My wife could provide documentation. Probably photographs. Possibly sworn testimony before a judge.

There is a small archaeological record of my interests scattered throughout the house, garage, boat, computers, browser bookmarks, and various storage containers.

Some projects get finished. Plenty of them do.

Others reach a strange point where I suddenly lose all interest in them.

And I’ve finally realized that sometimes the project was never actually the point.

The question was: “Can I do this?”

So I start figuring it out. I research it. I buy whatever stupid specialized thing is apparently required. I learn the software. I make the jig. I build the prototype.

I solve three problems I didn’t even know existed when I started.

And then somewhere around halfway through, my brain looks at the remaining work and goes: “Oh. Yeah. We can definitely do this.”

And apparently that’s enough. Mystery solved. Case closed. Everybody go home.

Except there is still half a goddamn project sitting on the workbench.

Because once I know how to finish it, actually finishing it occasionally feels like paperwork.

The interesting part is over. The dragon has been slain.

Now somebody wants me to fill out the dragon paperwork.

And I don’t wanna.

This, understandably, drives my wife slightly insane.

Because from her perspective, I have not “proven that I can build the thing.” I have created another unfinished thing.

These are apparently different concepts. Marriage teaches you so much. I love you baby.

Honestly though, I genuinely envy people who don’t work this way.

There are people who pick one thing and devote ten years to it.

Ten years. They restore one car. They build one enormous model railroad. They write one book. They research one subject. etc…

They wake up Saturday morning and walk right back over to the same project they’ve been working on since the Obama administration.

I find these people fascinating.

Possibly supernatural.

I would love to possess that kind of focus.

Instead, six months into something, I’m staring at it thinking:

Yes, yes, very interesting. But have you heard about CNC plasma tables?

And the worst part is that even when I do finish something, that doesn’t solve the problem.

Finishing something merely creates a vacancy.

My brain sees an empty spot on the project roster and immediately begins interviewing replacements.

“Oh good, the boat air conditioner works now.”

Fantastic. Anyway, have you considered making an embroidered 16th-century Scottish robe?

“Wait.. WHAT?”

And God help me if I get legitimately bored.

Boredom is dangerous.

Boredom has cost me thousands of dollars.

Boredom owns power tools.

Boredom has a PayPal account.

Boredom knows my credit-card number.

Boredom has financing options.

Boredom knows how to hide things from my wife.

(Boredom hopes my wife doesn’t read this.)

Somewhere in America, there is probably an algorithm whose entire job is identifying men like me and whispering:

“You know what would be cool?”

And son of a bitch, it works every time.

The funny thing is, I genuinely envy people who can just stop.

People who can spend an entire Sunday doing absolutely nothing and don’t end the day feeling like they’ve squandered precious minutes of their rapidly diminishing mortal existence.

They sit in a hammock.

They drink a beer.

They watch the water.

Their brain doesn’t suddenly announce:

You could probably build a better hammock.

Mine does.

Then it starts researching marine-grade fabric. And aluminum extrusion. And load calculations. And now we’re not relaxing anymore. We’re prototyping Hammock 2.0.

I’ve tried telling myself that relaxation is productive.

Rest is important.

Downtime improves creativity.

All of this is apparently scientifically supported and sounds completely reasonable.

My brain’s response is essentially:

That’s fascinating. We should build something.

And maybe there’s a darker reason for that.

Because if you’re always doing something, you never really have to stop.

And if you never stop, you never have to sit there quietly while your brain starts wandering through all those charming little subjects it keeps stored in the basement.

• Mortality.
• Regrets.
• Things you should have done differently.
• Things you should still be doing.
• Whether you’re actually using your time well.
• Whether you’re happy.
• Whether you remembered to switch the laundry.
• Whether you’re hungry… who’s hungry?

Jesus Christ. Quick. BUY A LATHE!

Maybe that’s part of it.

Maybe perpetual motion is just cheaper than therapy.

Well…

Actually, considering the amount I’ve spent on tools, that’s almost certainly not true.

Anyway, I’ve mostly stopped fighting it.

At this point I’ve accepted that this is just how I’m wired.

I like making things.

I like fixing things.

I like learning things I have absolutely no practical reason to know.

I like taking something apart, understanding why it works.

And occasionally I discover why it used to work before I took it apart.

I like the moment when some ridiculous idea goes from, “I wonder if I could…” to “Holy shit, that actually worked.”

And yes, sometimes that means I have too many projects.

Sometimes it means I buy tools for hobbies I discovered Tuesday.

Sometimes it means my browser has 38 tabs open and every single one represents a completely different potential financial mistake.

Sometimes it means there is a half-completed project sitting somewhere that I absolutely intend to get back to. No really. I mean that sincerely.

I will. Probably. Unless I die first.

In which case my wife is going to have the world’s most confusing estate sale.

“What is this?”

“I don’t know. Apparently he was going to learn blacksmithing.”

“The history of cheese making?”

“He liked cheese.”

“And this?”

“Laser engraver.”

“Why are there seventeen Raspberry Pis?”

“I stopped asking questions years ago.”

But I’ve also realized something.

A lot of the things I’m proudest of in my life started because I was bored and asked: “I wonder if…”

That’s a dangerous sentence.

It’s also a pretty fucking good one.

Because I don’t want to spend whatever time I have left sitting around waiting for something interesting to happen.

Or worse, waiting to die.

I’d rather make something interesting happen.

I’d rather learn something completely unnecessary.

I’d rather build half of something ridiculous and abandon it after proving I could build the other half than spend ten years staring at the television wondering where the decade went.

That’s probably not the healthiest philosophy in the world.

But it’s mine.

And every once in a while, one of those ridiculous ideas sticks.

It gets finished. It becomes something I’m proud of.

Something useful. Something beautiful. Something that didn’t exist until I got bored enough to make it.

Even if occasionally that something requires a multimeter, three trips to Lowe’s, a YouTube tutorial from a guy named Doug, and a replacement part that for reasons nobody can explain is only manufactured in Slovenia.

So no…. I don’t idle well.

My engine rattles.

The RPM wanders.

Warning lights start coming on.

Eventually somebody needs to give me a project before I start taking apart perfectly functional household appliances just to see what’s inside.

And maybe one day I’ll learn to sit peacefully in a chair, stare out across the water, appreciate the moment, contemplate the miracle of existence, and simply be.

That sounds lovely.

But while we’re sitting here…

You know what would be cool?

I guess some people need peace and quiet.

Apparently I need a problem to solve; often one I created myself.