Personal Essay: The Boy Janitor Gets a Hobby

Why are successful people allowed to have hobbies? 

Since I was a kid, I understood a hobby to be a waste of time and money— something for the idle rich or the about-to-be poor. My father didn’t have time for hobbies, so neither did I. To clarify, this was not due to some idolization of my father or any choice of my own. I think there’s something in the Bible about ‘idle hands’— In case you haven’t read the Good Book recently, it’s against them. And since I grew up in a house where God was a pretty big deal, working hard was mandatory, and hobbies weren’t an option.

Now, you may be thinking, ‘Oh God NO! Is this one of those guilt-inducing stories about a kid who had to start working at the age of six?’ Well, let me put your mind at ease. I’m far too hip for that, and I would never do that to you.

I started working when I was around seven years old. Monday thru Friday, my dad did something with computers; I’ve known the man for nearly 40 years and I’m still not exactly sure what he does for a living. I had nothing to do with that part of his life. But on weekends, he supplemented his income by doing janitorial work at offices in LA. Now that’s where I came in! 

I was his boy janitor.  I still remember the order of operation from when we entered the office building. First thing’s first: go straight to the bathrooms and pour bleach in the toilets, then spray Pine-Sol into the sinks. Only then are you able to start working. This gives the bleach time to sit, and for the Pine-Sol to work its magic (whatever that is). A little trick of the trade is to make sure you use enough Pine-Sol so that the client can smell it come Monday; that way they know it’s clean. A room that looks clean is not enough, there must be proof, the sort only the nose can see. 

The office I worked at was in the upstairs of a fancy old building in the heart of Los Angeles. Both the front and rear entrances involved climbing a steep mountain of hard, round-edged steps. Perfect for knocking over a kid carrying a metal trashcan that was way too big for him. But as my father might say, “that kind of stuff puts hair on your chest”. If that were true, manscaping would be a major problem for me now. But this was the eighties, when the prospect of chest hair was a sign of virility and a badge of honor. So at least all the lugging, scrubbing, and sweeping had some alleged payoff.

So it went.  Brush brush, down. Brush brush, down. Sweep twice to the left, then brush it down. Sweep twice to the right, then... yep! You brush it down. Pretty easy right? Nope. Not with my father! I did it wrong all the time, and had to repeat it on countless occasions. My dad was (and still is) a prodigious sweeper, and to this day I can’t get the amount of sediment off the floor in a single sweep like that man can. 

You always have to dust vigorously, but not so hard that you knock items off the desk. And pick up the items on the desk, so you can get under them. Otherwise, you can’t fully eliminate the evidence. My boss/dad would give it the old finger test after I claimed I was done. If that finger came up with dust on it, I would have to get the pledge and do it right. 

After the trash is out, you go back to the toilets and flush the bleach down. Run the sinks, wipe wipe wipe. Then finally off to FedCo or some other chore to eat up the rest of your Saturday. Yay! So much fun!

And so it went. I was a boy janitor until I moved out of my parents’ house at the age of eighteen. I got my first ‘real’ job at McDonald’s as soon as I could legally work at fifteen and a half. By nineteen, I was in the competitive world of commission sales, and I ran a team of salespeople by twenty-one. Throughout my twenties, I never had less than two jobs; filling anywhere from fifty to sixty hours a week. I know this was quite a bit of backstory, so as one of Compton’s greatest poets once said, now back to the lecture at hand. 

Hopefully, my little jaunt down memory lane gives you a better understanding of why having a hobby seemed like a vice to me. Even now that I had the time in my thirties and my work life was quite different, I chose not to have an ‘evil’ hobby. I could not figure out how people could spend their time fishing, watching sports, or doing some other activity that wasn’t for profit or the pursuit of some future profit. I still can’t say the words softball league out loud for fear of being struck down. 

When the stress of retail middle-management became so great that I needed a physical release, I started running. At that time, you could have called me a distance runner; I ran between eight and twelve miles at a time, four or five days out of the week. I even participated in a handful of marathons, but I mostly went running as a version of therapy, and I did it by myself and for myself.  I was not passionate about the subject. It was more moving meditation than fun. And when I run, I listen to audiobooks on personal and business development. I mean, come on! That was valuable ear time that I could use to learn something useful. With running, I found I could kill three birds with one stone. I could manage stress, tackle auditory learning, and check off my exercise quota all at once. So that was the closest I came to a hobby.

But something had another plan for me… maybe it was The Man in the Clouds from the books my Catholic school taught me about. Or it could have been The Great Sun Lizard I just made up. Regardless of the source, something was about to be set into motion. 

The change agent came while I was on vacation with my wife. We were at one of my favorite thrift shops in the Eastern Sierra Nevada mountains, the proud town of Mammoth Lakes (go fighting Timberwolves!). Gina and I (she’s the wife character you just found out about) loved thrifting, especially on vacation (do we know how to party, or what?!). Thrift shopping in mountain towns can be very rewarding, since many of those ‘idle rich’ I mentioned earlier dump their gear at the end of the season like a Jack-o-Lantern in November.  So we were shopping for some treasures, when I saw a a gem poking out of the back of a file cabinet (which was also for sale). They had blue and yellow corded laces, and looked to be a cross between ballet slipper and radial tire. No time to look around. This is a speed game, so I grab them like a thrift ninja. My suspicion was confirmed; they were rock climbing shoes! But no way they fit my feet… the thrift gods couldn’t be that generous. But like in the story of Cinderella, the enchanted pumpkin picked me up from the thrift store and took me to my evil stepsisters’ house. No, not that part, that didn’t happen. Even better, it was that other part of the story: the shoes fit!! 

They were a little cracked and worn, but if you haven’t put on rock climbing shoes before, it’s a real trip how they seem to grip onto everything. I had tried on a bright new pair at REI years ago, dreaming about running up the side of a mountain, but never actually believed I could be the kind of person to do it for real. I asked Gina if I should buy them, and permission was granted. Here, finally, was the start of my first H-word. I didn’t know it then, but those magic slippers were the start of a full-blown passion (because I’m still not super good with calling anything I do a hobby).

Today, I keep what I call a rock journal. No, not a black book of how many roadies I’ve slept with (do you sleep with roadies? Groupies! I mean groupies). It’s a journal of how many times my hands and feet have touched a wall that I climb. As of today, I have forty-six entries, and most of that climbing takes place on the rigid cliffs of an indoor, faux mountain. Yes, I even broke down and got an expensive membership at a real climbing gym. The one I go to is called BoulderDash. How silly! Not silly, however, is the extreme enjoyment I have received from diving headfirst into this activity. 

If you could get my wife to talk about me, she’d kindly label me as ‘complicated’. I have ADD— not something self-diagnosed, but discovered through long periods of testing. I am severely dyslexic, and I’m a “-coholic”. That means put any word in the front of it, and I am or could be addicted to it. This can be trouble. All these things, and many many more! (picture that done in the voice of someone on QVC.) So because my dopamine is out of whack and my adrenaline is too low, I have an aversion to consistency. Well, outside of booze and other addictive stuff like I mentioned. I mention my many personality quirks to explain that if I want to get into something, it must fulfill a number of requirements to hold my attention. 

I walked into the rock gym the first time and pretended I knew everything. My wife wanted up to get a day pass and take a class, but that’s not how I work. No day pass for me; I go all in with a membership right when I walk in the gym.  I watched some people who looked like they knew what they were doing. I climbed around for probably an hour, and one of the times I reached halfway up a boulder and realized it was too high to stop and jump down. I was nearly out of energy, but I’d fall if I stopped climbing. Would I make it over the top? I’d never encountered an activity that forces you to overcome panic like that. Afterwards, I sat down on the mat and knew I was in love.

This hobby/passion utilizes a combination of energy units I have never before filled to this level. Feeling-wise, it’s like a combination of martial arts and motorcycle riding, as it takes not only extreme mental and physical energy, but a focus on perception as well. Having all of these units drained in an hour is about as good as it gets for a guy like me. I leave a session of rock climbing with the same sense I’d get after a particularly good therapy session, almost like I’m floating. This concert of mind and body is thrilling. Even on a weak day when I just don’t climb the way I want to, I still leave feeling tremendous. If I don’t conquer a new route right away, I know that I’ve started on a puzzle that I’ll figure out at a later date.

I found in this activity what I had missed in my first thirty-eight years: a different perspective from which to look at my life. Well, no… that’s not it. That’s the old me talking; trying to rationalize and qualify it based on my old value set. This is what it really is: Fun. A three letter word I  hadn’t allowed myself to use. Rock climbing is just super, stupid fun! Watch any kids playing in a park (I can’t do because I’m a childless, bearded man in his late 30s), they love climbing on just about anything, and as kids my little brother and I were no different. I still feel that desire to climb every time I go into this gym, and I see it in every other person there, whatever their age . I’m just at the start of this journey, but I know it will be a lifelong pursuit and I hope the life of this pursuit can be long. And I know that it is a worthwhile pursuit, because beyond simple fun, it motivates me to train toward being in the kind of shape that will bring me to higher and higher levels, and push beyond my perceived limits.

My brother joined a few weeks after I started (he’d never admit that I was his motivation for this, but that’s the business of little and big brothers. You will understand completely or not at all), and we’ve been challenging each other ever since. My beautiful wife eventually joined too, and now we’re all top rope certified (meaning we can climb higher with the assistance of a belay equipment and ropes). My brother and my wife have been at it for less time than me and they’re already better than me in many respects, but even this doesn’t bother me. Which is pretty unique; I seldom concede where competition is concerned. This is the first activity I’ve ever tried where the enjoyment level is so high, that I’m not distracted by those things that used to dominate my life. 

When we’re focused on living our most successful life possible, it’s natural to fall into the trap of single-mindedness. We start to direct all our efforts into moving the giant boulder, whatever that may be for you, forward. I was able to alter my perspective when I stepped back from that boulder and climbed it instead! I know, the the metaphor also happens to be literal in my case. But whatever your chosen ‘thing’ is, the point remains the same: there is nothing wrong with allowing yourself to find joy in recreation, and if you remain mindful of it, that allowance can even heighten your functioning in the other areas of your life. I found that with my hobby (aside from the physical benefits), I could be passionate about more than one thing. It provided an outlet for me to let go of negative thoughts, and a way to share more experiences with my family. And you may not have found ‘your’ hobby yet, but it’s worth looking for. When you find it, it’ll enrich your life and make the lives of the people around you more enjoyable.