The Unadulting Society

There's something about working with your hands that reconnects you to being human in a way screens never can. I strip rust off old cast iron pans. My friend builds model trains. Another friend bakes sourdough. Different tools, same impulse — making something tangible in a world that increasingly wants everything to be digital and disposable.

i have a theory that fidget toys and hobby tools are cousins. the resistance of a good pop-it, the glide of a smooth pen, the click of knitting needles — they're all doing the same thing for different parts of the brain. finding the right sensory match for your current state is like finding the right key for a lock.

My cast iron skillet is over a hundred years old. I found it rusted and forgotten at a flea market, brought it home, stripped it, seasoned it, and now it's the best pan I own. I think about that a lot when I see people discover hobbies later in life. The thing was always good. It just needed someone who knew how to restore it. Same with joy — it was always there, waiting to be uncovered.

i say "hangurber" instead of "hamburger." i started doing it as a joke five years ago and now i can't stop. it's just how i say it. my brain has accepted hangurber as the official word. if i order a hamburger at a restaurant i have to consciously think about it.

"aminals" instead of "animals." it started when i was babysitting my niece and now it's permanent. i'm 32 years old and i say "look at those cute little aminals" and i mean it. the vet's office thinks i'm illiterate. i don't care.