Tamara Nelson doesn't do hobbies

Last night, I wrestled a brown bear in the woods. It was in my dreams but I wrestled one in the woods. I had it in a tight headlock by a river because it claimed I couldn't stick with a hobby, that Tamara Nelson doesn't do hobbies. That's when it clawed my forearms and a list of all the hobbies I quit sprung out and rolled through the trees past the river from pole dancing to needlepoint and axe throwing. And then I leaped awake with an urge to tackle a mess of hobbies and that nosy brown bear. 

Tennis

There’s a tennis court some minute-long drive from my house. It stretches the length of a drugstore parking lot in a metropolitan area and used to be a drugstore parking lot. Amateurs head down there to sharpen their amateurish skills and everyone else shows up to smoke or gossip about the latest town, celebrity, footnote-worthy drama. Lucky for me, spring rain scares everyone away because soggy cigarettes don't attract other smokers, “hot tea” and rain don't mix, and I imagine amateurs appear goofy playing in raincoats. While I don't have skills with a racket, lungs for nicotine, or a tongue for gossip, I have a brown bear to prove wrong and a raincoat because this thrifted tennis outfit is not gonna be wet. 

I park my car in front of the court and step out for it in a large raincoat the color of cheddar cheese. It's the one I shred and sprinkle on my homemade tacos. The soft shell ones with beef that make my face swell up and numb my tongue. With every bounce of the ball, I squint at the net, the other side, the grey wall opposite mine, and pretend the brown bear stands there. Stands there in all its smug glory with a doubtful grin. 

“Eat this serve, you judgmental bitch.” 

I thrust the ball into the air and swear it breaks through the stratosphere but when I swing, it falls at my feet. I miss the whole ball. That was a fluke, I mutter to myself. I give it a bigger toss and swing but it smacks my eye instead. That was another fluke. The brown bear chuckles, cackles at this point, and I NEED to hit this ball over the net. 

Every serve is a miss. Every single serve in my cheesy raincoat is a flawless miss. The rain doesn't let up and neither does the bear with a wider grin each time I screw up. On the next miss, I hurl the racket at the other side of the net, scan the area for unwanted spectators/witnesses, and rush myself and the racket back into the car to head home. 

The rain somehow falls in tune with the rhythm of my window wipers, busy people's soaked newspaper umbrellas, the subtle sway of the trees. I notice them on the block for the first time when I turn into my driveway and growl. I visualize my list of quitted hobbies tumbling down the street, past these trees, and underneath a few unsold used cars, one of which has the brown bear at the wheel. And one of my raincoat’s armpits tore from the throw. You win this one, brown bear. 

Sewing

I have to fix the cheddar cheese raincoat armpit and what better way to do that than sewing. I was too lazy to purchase a machine and the rain makes me too lazy to head out for one now. But I have a needle and thread in a wicker basket of random objects somewhere around here. I search high and low in cabinets, around expensive clothes and wigs in my closets I don't wear, and discover it under my bed by a guitar case. And knowing me, the last thing inside that case is anything but an actual guitar. 

“Let's get sewing.”

I return to the living room inspired to beat that brown bear off me. I plop in my oversized chair, push the thread through the eye of the needle and the needle into the cheddar cheese raincoat armpit. My eyes widen and I could make this work. The second that though comes, I prick my finger. Then the brown bear slouches on the couch adjacent from me in that trademark grin.

“You are NOT gonna get me.”

I weave the needle through the armpit and prick my finger again. I suck the tiny blood drop out of my finger and make another attempt, another “college try” as the saying goes. And on the third prick, my teeth grit, my eyes water, and the bear chuckles with a cup of coffee. 

“You’re not a hobbyist, Tamara. Give it up already. And get a bandage for that finger.”

The bear is right about my finger but wrong about my pursuit of my ideal hobby. I rise out of the chair and yell “I am not gonna give up on finding the perfect hobby!” but all someone else would witness is a woman who shouts at furniture. Better get that bandage and peroxide and whatever else my finger needs because I feel a little dizzy now. 

That's another off the mile-long list. 

Matchmaking

With my finger freshly bandaged, I get the idea that matchmaking could be my calling. My friend Nika has been through fifteen relationships in the past seventeen years we've known each other and they're all because of me. She claims that the single life is ideal for her but sixteen could be that special number, it could be her lucky break. I can't regret what I haven't tried and the same applies to her. That brown bear shakes its head but I'm gonna call her and work my magic. 

“Nika, we're gonna get you a nice partner.” 

“Oh no, Tamara. My love life or lack thereof is not about to be one of your silly hobby attempts.” 

She SOUNDS irritated but deep down, there's some gratefulness or there will be. Give it time. 

“I wanna have a hobby but I wanna help my best friend spice up her life. Kill two birds with one stone.” 

Sure, she sighs and would rather do anything else but I gotta get out of this house and then, I haven't seen my best friend in forever. That should distract me from the brown bear and give me fulfillment. 

“You know I have a canary, ri-”

“I'm coming over right now.”

And hang up. I am off to Nika’s place with a raincoat without a torn armpit and the determination to satisfy two desires. 

The car ride there is jazzy and soulful and rainy in a pretty way. No tennis racket, no needle and thread, no brown bear, no problem. Amateur tennis players in raincoats, smokers huddled underneath gentrifying coffee shop awnings, the scent of blueberry scones and barber shop disinfectant. It's lovely and Nika's neighborhood is lovelier with its craftsman homes and silent neighbors. She stands in the driveway in a raincoat and bonnet with her arms folded which means somebody's ready for that love life upgrade. 

“Nika, I've been dying to see you, girl. It's been a hot minute.”

“Tamara, if we do this, I gotta set ground rules. No speed dating, no friends or former coworkers from social media, and no sayings that include physical harm to birds.”

I chuckle but she doesn't and when I follow her exhausted shuffle into the house, there isn't a chuckle then either. There's a sigh though and the brown bear leaned against a full-body mirror. Oh, we're gonna find her somebody. 

“Gimme your phone, Tamara.”

I reinstalled a dating app she deletes every six months (the length of her relationships) and handed her the phone to sign back into it. 

“What happened to your finger?”

“Had a little sewing accident but it's nothing.”

Then a range of guys come up on the screen from employed to unemployed, newly single to always single and more. Brown bear be damned, this is gonna work. 

“What about him?”

I stop on a guy with a doberman licking his face. Chiseled jaw, cinnamon eyes and skin, late twenties, budding entrepreneur, loves movies. 

“Tamara, if he's a budding entrepreneur, he's unemployed and I need you to match my drive. Swipe away.”

“What about him?”

I stop on a shirtless guy on a surfboard at the beach. Looks like the last one except he's white, works in building maintenance, and enjoys piña coladas. 

“Building maintenance means he's a janitor and I don't have an issue with that if you have ambitions for something more. Swipe away on him too.”

Nika yawns and stares at her canary from the living room. I scroll through a row of others on the screen: college-educated, extroverted, tall, muscular, etc and the complete opposites. But Nika sighs “no” without taking her eyes off the canary. The brown bear grins by its cage and does the “Tamara doesn't do hobbies” dance which is a simple two-step. I grip my jacket because I'm sick and tired of its taunting, teasing, heckling ritual and toss it at the cage. 

Nika watches her canary shiver in the cage and glares at me. 

“Get the hell out, Tamara. I think you overstayed your welcome and please go see a therapist.”

This imaginary list of failed hobbies is gonna be my downfall when I'm ancient twiddling my thumbs in a wicker chair with nothing to do. 

Creative Writing

The drive home is filled with guilt and hard rain now. No amateur tennis, no cigarette smoke, no gossip; the neighborhood looks deserted. I hope they know they're missed in a strange way. I hope Nika knows how sorry I am for scaring the canary, trying to force romantic connections from a dating app, putting my longing for a believable hobby first. I hope the brown bear knows there are other hobbies to attempt before “giving up” such as writing about this crappy experience. 

I pull into my driveway and think about everything so far, about tennis, sewing, matchmaking, and the brown bear that glued my frustration toward every hobby together. The first words I type into my phone's notepad are “a brown bear no one else sees antagonizes me and the ghost of hobbies past haunt me these days”. That feels author-y, right? Time to slam all this out on my laptop. I don't want to complain about or be afraid of possible carpal tunnel writing for a minute in a composition notebook. 

I stare at everything in the house for deeper inspiration; the bronze shih tzu statue, the hardwood flooring and panels, the sterile people in paintings of long-dead artists I don't know. Gotta get my laptop and I stare at a blank screen once it's in front of me. Is this how being an author works? 

“Oh yeah. My notepad.” 

I check my phone and type “a brown bear no one else sees antagonizes me and the ghost of hobbies past haunt me” in lowercase. That's the poetic aesthetic I think. That's a solid social media writer aesthetic. As I continue, the brown bear is hunched over on the couch mocking me but that's fine because its story is gonna suck. 

This is noteworthy, this is golden, this is- interrupted by my growling stomach. Let's stroll to the kitchen and check the transparent fridge. 

“Tuna on rye, don't have bread. Try the crab meat salad instead.”

This is how I decide all my meals. If they fit well in a rhyme, they're breakfast, lunch, or dinner. Speaking of which, if the brown bear rubbing its stomach is starving, I've got a knuckle sandwich ready. Back to my oh-so-busy author life. 

I take inhuman bites of the salad and scan through what I wrote. Nika should hear this but she should hear an apology too and that's when my phone buzzes with her face and name on the screen. 

“I put you on speaker,” I say with the tiniest mouthful of crab meat salad. 

“Are you busy right now, Tamara? I wanna apologize for the way I came at you earlier.” 

“Hmm no you're good, girl. I was about to call and apologize for sticking my nose in your love life. And tossing my jacket at your canary’s cage.

I flip off the brown bear who pretends to be on the phone too and shushes me. 

“There's a reason behind that and I wrote about it.” 

“Since when did you write?” she giggles and I don't know if she understands my genius yet. 

“Alright, doubting Thomasina. Listen to this: 

a brown bear no one else sees antagonizes me and the ghost of hobbies past haunt me

the neighborhood tennis court didn't believe i was meant for its so-called hallowed grounds

and the brown bear on the other side didn't either

sewing, where the needle and thread betrayed me, pricked my finger

the brown bear chuckles at my blood

matchmaking witnessed me fumble 

my best friend’s love life

non-existent by choice

and terrify her canary

as the brown bear taunted me with dance

even now, as i write this

the brown bear insults my dream

to have a hobby that doesn't haunt me”

There's silence on Nika's end, enough for me to rush the rest of the crab meat salad in my mouth. Enough for me to wonder if this is decent or another failed attempt added to the mile-long ghost hobby list. The brown bear pats itself on the back. That's when Nika clears her throat. 

“Where does this brown bear come from anyway?” 

My face feels hot. Last night, I dreamt that I wrestled a brown bear in the woods sounds ridiculous and to any sane person, it is. But Nika and I have been friends for close to two decades. The worst that happens is she gives me the number to a licensed therapist. I sigh through it and release my truth. 

“Last night, I wrestled a bear in the woods. It was in my dreams but I wrestled one in the woods. I had it in a tight headlock by a river because it claimed I couldn't stick with a hobby, that Tamara Nelson doesn't do hobbies. That's when it clawed my forearms and a list of all the hobbies I quit sprung out and rolled through the trees past the river from pole dancing to needlepoint and axe throwing. And then I leaped awake with an urge to tackle a mess of hobbies and that nosy brown bear.”

“First off, I'm gonna give you the number to a licensed therapist. Not mine because I'm seeing her-” 

I have a massive smile on my face right now. Nika is seeing someone and THAT explains why she wasn't interested in any of those guys. Although she probably wouldn't have been interested anyway. 

“Stop it, Tamara. I can hear your smile over the phone.”

“Okay, okay. What's her name?”

“Teresa. Now can we get back to this brown bear situation?” 

I want to poke and pry so much. My best friend Tanika Williams is seeing her therapist. I could do cartwheels if my finger didn't suffer severe damage. 

“Okay later… Nika and Teresa, sitting in a tree.” 

“Tamara Dionne Nelson, I'm about to hang up on you. You better change the subject to that damn bear.” 

“Alright. Back to the brown bear? What do you think about the dream, the writing, everything?”

“You already know my stance on the licensed specialist. And then, I think the brown bear is the personification of your doubt. That's why no one else can see it but you. You think every hobby you tried- pole dancing, swimming, photography, sewing, give up matchmaking though- has been a waste of time because they don't go the way you hoped.

“Don't let that brown bear get to you. Don't pressure yourself to stick to a hobby and don't block yourself from enjoying it either. Let it all happen naturally. And the writing isn't amazing but it's a good start.” 

In that moment, the brown bear is gone. I don't know whether to laugh or laugh obnoxiously. Take that, brown bear and no, you can't raid my fridge while I'm out of the house. 

“Why was your doubt in the form of a brown bear though?” 

I remember watching a documentary about brown bears, how they gather for summer salmon. How they weigh 700 pounds. About 5-8 feet tall. And I fell asleep during a commercial about laser hair removal. But that part isn't relevant. 

“Fell asleep during a documentary about brown bears. So, what's Teresa like?”