Three Hobbies and a Mild Crisis

When I sold my company and drifted into something resembling semi-retirement, people stopped asking me about my EBITDA and started asking me a far more stressful question:

“So, what do you do?”

I didn’t have a great answer. And I was surprised by how much that rattled me.

In Chicago, that question means what’s your job. And I didn’t have one. In San Diego, where I also live, it means what’s your hobby, and there are three acceptable answers: Surfing, golf, or tennis. Hiking is okay but suggests you’re uncoordinated. When Trish once answered, “I sing,” you could see the pity on our neighbor’s face.

I didn’t have a hobby. I had activities. I read, I played tennis, I drank cocktails. None of them made me who I am.

But now I felt the pressure to have an identity again. Not the old one—the CEO, the founder, the guy with 5,000 employees and spreadsheets he didn’t read. I needed a new identity. Something breezy and coastal. Something that made young onlookers say, “I want to be him when I’m like 90 years old too.”

So, I went hobby hunting to try on new hats. I found three hobbies to try for three months each. Surely one of them would tell the world who I was now.

First Stop: The Heavens Themselves

I began with astronomy—because nothing says “cool beach guy” like sitting alone at night looking at stars millions of miles away.

I kicked off my astronomy career by getting into a contrived argument with an actual astronomer, Phillip S. Harrington, about the space-watching binoculars he recommended in Astronomy Magazine. I emailed him that I disagreed with his choice, and he wrote me back right away, explaining patiently that I was an idiot. But it was official, I was now an amateur astronomer involved in scientific debates.

On my first night out, I learned that a blue moon isn’t blue, which felt like false advertising. A week later I saw the International Space Station cross the sky, which was legitimately mind-blowing. An app told me exactly when and where to look, which seemed like an invasion of privacy for a spacecraft, but handy for me.

Everything else was disappointing. Constellations? What a scam. No group of stars looks like a man-horse archer. Comets? Forget it, you’ll never find them.

Standing alone in the dark looking for planets, I had a thought I didn’t love: I used to be someone, someone who mattered. People cared about what I had to say. Now I was a guy in flip-flops wondering where the hell Saturn went.

The three months ended and so did my first hobby. I won’t miss it, although it was humbling. When you look up at all that majesty you can’t help but feel unimportant, like a speck. But I don’t need space to remind me that I’m just dust and ashes. I have a whole religion for that.

Still, there’s pleasure spending an hour outside at night, away from the sounds of everyday life. Looking up, I felt small and insignificant, but alive and in awe.

Want to buy a pair of used binoculars?

Second Stop: Infuse Me!

Next, I tried infusion, because nothing says “California reinvention” like small-batch anything.

To document my journey toward becoming a person of refined sensibilities, I kept a diary:

Entry #1:

Yesterday I bought some small mason jars and tonight I’m sipping a delicious frozen rosemary infused gin. Maybe if astronomy led to an actual space voyage it could compare to infusion. This is a hobby that lets me learn and drink at the same time. I’m an infusionist!

Entry #2:

I made French spice-infused Earl Grey Tea. It’s delicious. Sweet and spicy. It’s like Paris and London had a baby, boiled it and poured it into my mug. Maybe I should start an infusion blog.

Entry #3:

This is getting old. Do I really need artichoke-infused gin made with a sous vide? Honestly, I’m getting sick of the flavored alcohol already. I need to find some other kinds of infusions. I’m off to the internet.

Entry #4:
I accidentally ended up on survivalist forums. These infusionists are preparing for the end-times using honey, garlic, and hatred of the federal government.

I’m out.

Anyone want a free set of mason jars with the purchase of some binoculars?

Third Stop: Lomography

Lomography is a creative photography movement that values artistic expression over technical perfection. Blurry and overexposed mistakes are the point.

I began by reading a lomography blog while drinking some cardamon and ginger-infused vodka that I made while that was still a thing.

Driving around town looking for objects to photograph makes you look at everything differently, more artistically. Should I capture this tree from a low angle? Should I shoot my cheese sandwich in black and white? Killing two hobbies with one shot, I took a blurry photo of my daughter in front of an orange moon. It was ridiculous, like this hobby.

When the three months were over, I had hundreds of photos, two of which were worth keeping. I’m giving the camera to one of the kids—nobody has bitten on my binoculars or mason jars, so I won’t bother trying to sell this.

The hobby hunt is over, and here’s what I learned: I wasn’t looking for a hobby. I was looking for a self.

For the past fifteen years I knew exactly who I was. Founder. CEO. Someone that people wanted to meet. No one ever asked, “So, what do you do?” because they already knew.

Then I sold the company.

And I didn’t know who I was.

So, I tried new identities. Astronomer. Infusionist. Lomographer. None of them fit. But each one taught me that being a beginner is a surprisingly hopeful way to live. You get to fail safely. You get to be stupid. Expectations are blissfully low.

My hobbies didn’t give me a new title or bragging rights. But they did something better: they pulled me back into childlike moments where I felt silly, creative, and alive.

So what do I say now when people ask “what do you do?” I tell them the truth:

I’m still learning.