Opinion
When I found myself tearing up in Bunnings, I knew I needed a rest
Genevieve Novak
Spectrum columnistAn old bit of advice floating around the internet is that you need three hobbies: one that keeps you fit, one that’s creative, and one that makes money. I think about it whenever someone asks me how I fill my free time, when the only answer I can come up with is, “Diligently making my way through every piece of media available on every streaming platform I subscribe to, and one my sister pays for.”
It’s hard to outrun the feeling that I should always be doing more. I have the supreme privilege of three steady jobs. I love them all, and they pay fairly, and yet it never feels like enough.
Credit: Illustration: Robin Cowcher
Whenever an article about the daily routine of a billionaire CEO surfaces, the idiot inside me believes, just for a moment, that if I took ice baths, had a child so I could borrow their blood plasma to stay looking 32 forever, and woke up at 3.45am to meditate for an hour, then I might wake up a billionaire, too.
Hustle culture dupes smarter people than me into believing that the inconvenience of hard work is all that stands between us and delirious, unfathomable, unethical wealth.
The myth of meritocracy. I’m sick of it.
I recently took a slab of leave because the compounding stress of hundreds of work projects, two novels and the round-the-clock promotion they require, and an endless sprinkle of freelance commitments weighed so heavily on my shoulders that I began sobbing at any minor inconvenience. And truthfully, my life isn’t even that hard. If I had a family to support, or a sick parent, or a chronic illness, I’d be catatonic. But the point remains: a candle can only burn for so long.
Sometimes I wish I had a partner, not because I’m lacking for intimacy — that’s what smut novels are for — but because I’d like someone else to contribute to the household income.
Time off was a privilege, and I wasn’t about to waste it.
Part of this is steeped in greed: the rush of pulling out my wallet for an indulgent purchase and knowing the card reader won’t squawk in protest. But part of it is fear, too. I scramble around picking up jobs for which I don’t really have time or capacity, hoarding cash, trying to think of ways I can pay off my entire mortgage in six months. Is it the echoing childhood trauma of financial scarcity, or is it the doomscrolling’s insistence that we are on the brink of financial collapse?
When I was apartment-shopping, I felt genuine conflict between a one-bedroom I could afford and a two-bedroom I couldn’t (did I really want to have a housemate if things got dire?) As I search for a crappy little car to get my dog to the vet and back once a month, part of me says to get something nice enough that I can use it to drive for Uber if I ever need to.
We’re all hustling: for a promotion, for a passive income stream, for a safety net, for a way out. Sometimes we give side hustles and the gig economy a makeover and call it “freelancing” or “entrepreneurship” (which, by the way, is French for “full of shit”). Let’s call it what it is: a symptom of our decaying capitalist hellscape.
I once had a friend curl her lip in disgust when I told her that I did my job to the letter, no more, no less. “I’m glad I’m not your manager,” she said, “because I expect my team to go above and beyond every day.” Our middle managers and capitalist overlords share the same belief in limitless productivity, the idea that 110 per cent is a starting point, that leisure is a synonym for lazy. Good for their bottom line, apocalyptic for our wellbeing.
During my first week of leave, I was more anxious at home than I was at the office. I started home improvement projects, burned through audiobooks, laboured over plot structures, stuck a rigid gym routine to the fridge, wrote to-do lists and set alarms, because time off was a privilege, and I wasn’t about to waste it. When I caught myself getting teary in a Bunnings aisle because the brackets I wanted were out of stock, I knew it was time to stop. I went home and accepted the blank stretch of laundry wall where shelves were supposed to go. I relaxed for the first time in three years and felt more exhausted than ever. And then I began to heal.
I’m done with toxic productivity. I welcome nourishing rest.
The Opinion newsletter is a weekly wrap of views that will challenge, champion and inform your own. Sign up here.