Some time ago, my wife showed me an article in Maclean’s dealing with the plight of “Scrapbook Widowers”—Men who have been “abandoned” by their spouses for their border-line obsession with the hobby of scrapbooking. The article itself is a great read, although a bit frightening. The amount of money that is poured into the craft (now a multi-billion dollar industry) is astronomical and I had no idea there were scrapbooking cruises and craft fairs. I can’t imagine looking at different kinds of paper, glue, and stickers for more than a few minutes, let alone days.
I guess that says a lot about my interest in crafts, doesn’t it?
My being creeped-out aside, we did have a great opportunity to discuss the importance of hobbies – specifically, when does our enjoyment of anything go too far and take the place of ultimate desire in our lives?
I don’t have to tell you about the different directions we’re being pulled in, the demands we all have on our time, and how important it is to have a healthy release from these demands. We all get that; I don’t think anyone would argue to the contrary. Hobbies are fantastic. One of my favourite hobbies is reading.
Anyone who has read this blog for any length of time knows I love books. I love them more than college kids love bad pizza at four a.m. I have a stack of books on my night stand about a foot and a half high, on subjects varying from theology to crime-fiction. It’s awesome! When I see another book I’d like to read, I get giddy. When people ask me what I want for my birthday, the answer is simple: Books, check my Amazon wish list.
The holiday when I’m not sure why I’m getting a present? Books.
There’s nothing wrong with books by themselves, even the ones I don’t like; although, if I don’t like a book or author, I’m happy to tell you why.
In excruciating detail.