I’ve always been jealous of people with hobbies. I aspire to have one, but my overly-linear “does it move the ball forward?” filter for life has held me back from an all consuming passion for baseball cards, stamps or old daggers (seriously–Angelina Jolie collects them).
So I was out of my league when I went to a hobby store a few years back on the hunt for a doll house. My daughter was obsessed with doll houses and wanted a “real one” to be her big Christmas gift.
In a split second decision that would haunt me for the next year, I decided to go with the kit instead of the pre-built house as a “fun project to work on together.”
If you haven’t been through this before, a doll house “kit” is something only the guy from A Beautiful Mind could love: a giant box overflowing with thousands of tiny, unidentifiable, easily misplaced pieces of wood, all of which need to be organized, inventoried, sanded, painted (in a specific order), trimmed and varnished, all before you assemble anything.
Sundays over the next year became a mess of paint, glue, obsession, frustration, and trips to the hobby store, where the kind and crafty older women looked at me like a 5-year old who planned to build a car.