It started with audiobooks—Harry Potter audiobooks, specifically. I loved to sit and listen to them while doing something mindless like cleaning my kitchen or driving down the freeway. Then, when the iPad came along, suddenly sitcoms and Netflix were a part of my daily life, where I could watch Modern Family while making dinner or rewatch Lord of the Rings while building something from IKEA. Then it was an NPR app, an Audible.com subscription, and the discovery of endless podcasts. But recently, as I sat brushing my teeth, listening to How to Win Friends and Influence People, I realized: I am always tuned in to something else.

Whenever I'm doing anything that doesn’t require my focused attention, my mind is occupied by something else. So, in my day, I move from waking up and turning on NPR, working (just Rdio there, and I think that's safe), listening to an audiobook while walking my dog, catching up on a show after work while cooking dinner, and maybe listening to a podcast or two before grabbing a book and going to bed (and sometimes I do leave my apartment, I promise). The more I thought about it, the more I realized something else: This habit is terrible.

If I'm always focused on something else, when do I take time to focus on me? I think I've become a product of the modern world, where we can always be tuned in. Whether it started as a way to escape real life or just for the entertainment factor varies, but now, it's just become a habit. I don't know why it took so long to see how unhealthy this is.

(Walden. Thoreau knew what was up.)

Not long after my realization, I came across some supporting evidence. I was reading Austin Kleon’s latest book (which I got for free thanks to Creative Mornings ATX) “Steal Like an Artist.” In it, he says this:

“Take time to be bored... Creative people need time to just sit around and do nothing. I get some of my best ideas when I’m bored, which is why I never take my shirts to the cleaners. I love ironing my shirts—it’s so boring, I almost always get good ideas. If you’re out of ideas, wash the dishes. Take a really long walk. Stare at a spot on the wall for as long as you can...”

I read that paragraph and then slowly shut the little book in horror. Really, I can’t remember the last time I was bored. Waiting at the car dealership? Hey, I have an iPhone stocked with Kindle books I’m halfway through, not to mention Instagram. On an airplane? Crossword puzzles! Painting my nails? There are still five seasons of Gossip Girl to watch! Driving downtown? This American Life.

I also thought back to Charles Darwin, who had a "thinking path" in his home where he'd walk every day. He'd set rocks out so he could keep track of his loops so he wouldn't waste the smallest bit of brain power. That kind of focused thinking is impressive, and it obviously paid off. I've never forgotten that tidbit about him.

So. My new focus is on boredom. I like making the focus about boredom itself because that's easy, and I don't have to change much in my life. For now, I do refuse to give up NPR in the shower, books before bed, or crossword puzzles on airplanes. Really, a lot of these things are a wonderful part of my life that inspire me and do make me think—when I allow the time and space for it. But I will take a bit more time to stare at the wall or at my own face in the mirror. I think I can find a good balance, wherein I hope to create exactly that.

When I was a little girl, I remember going on vacation to Mexico with my family, getting a postcard for a friend, and writing to tell her what a miserable time I was having (I had strep throat or something). My mom looked at it and said that you should always write about what a good time you're having in a postcard, even if it's a lie. No one wants to read about a crappy vacation (solid life lesson—thanks, Mom).

There’s one type of postcard that’s allowed to break this rule: PostSecret. I’ve been a PostSecret fan since my angsty teenage years, and I still love the idea (and I'm still pretty angsty, let's be honest). The idea is simple: People send in an anonymous confession on a homemade postcard. While some of the confessions are disturbing, I think it’s such a poetic and clever way to connect with other people and to feel a bit more human. It reminds you that you’re not the only one who sometimes has a really crappy vacation.

As a side note, I also kind of love that this website is just as simple as it’s ever been: an ugly little blog (note: ad-free blog) with just a weekly post. I was lucky enough to meet the founder, Frank Warren, at a book signing once, and he’s just the nicest guy. I’d highly recommend his TED Talk if you’ve never heard much about PostSecret.

I met a new friend tonight (who is really great, by the way), and our conversation really made me think. It wasn’t an intellectual or intimate conversation, but it brought up something that I’ve been struggling to avoid for awhile inside my own brain. It went like this: To start, new friend and I have known each other casually for a couple weeks so we’re not strangers. We start talking, and she is telling me how much she loves film. She has worked in film, she loves to watch them, and, “Hey, have you seen ‘True Stories’?” Then she says, “So what’s your thing? Like, ‘Hi, my name is Tiffany, and I _____.” I stare at her. My mouth goes a little dry. “I don’t know,” I say. “Is that terrible?” 

And it’s true. I don’t know anymore. I used to know. I used to know so much that I was obnoxious about it. I knew who I was, what I was good at, and what I liked. But somewhere, within the past five years or so, that’s slipped away from me. It’s not to say that I don’t get interested in anything anymore—it’s just that I don’t define myself by them.

Even the other night, I had to fill out a name tag. “Name:” “Tiffany.”  Easy. “I’m interesting because ___.” Fuck. “Because I ate a burrito for both lunch and dinner?” No. “Because I have a really clean kitchen?” Definitely not. “Because I have a really cute puppy.” That’ll work. My defining characteristic is my dog (I also have a really nice Peace Lily, if anyone cares).

I think that a lot of the things I do, I hesitate to define myself by just because I’m not great at them. At what point do you say, “I’m an artist"? Sure, I like to paint, but I’m not a painter. I do it sporadically and poorly, by any real standards. I like to read, but I never stick to a certain genre, and it seems silly to define yourself purely by a medium of information intake. I was never much of a biker, I don’t rock climb anymore, I’m a shoddy runner and a poor baker, and I’m not even fanatical about Harry Potter or Ben Folds anymore (although don’t get me wrong—they’re still very dear to me). Even my job title is an ambiguous, albeit great, career—but it’s definitely not something they’d make a Barbie doll for.

Maybe I’m going through a new process of defining myself, or maybe I’m just at a point in my life where I don’t have a desire to put myself into boxes anymore. Maybe I don’t need to be black or white in my interests in order to feel confident in my sense of self. Maybe it was this new friend’s question that was the absurdity—not my lack of an answer. But I’m not sure I believe that, and I’m not sure society accepts that. I think I need to be unafraid to throw myself into something—really and fully—as well as to to explore new things. I need to remember that 27 isn’t too old to redefine yourself or to discover something entirely new.

“Hi, my name is Tiffany, and I’m just trying to figure things out. Nice to meet you."

As any realm of my social media life has made clear, I got a puppy! I’ve been wanting a dog for years and had been actively searching for my canine buddy since I moved to Austin. I finally found Percy (as in Percy Weasley, yes) on, of all things, Meetup.com, in a forum for his lovable breed (which is a Cavalier King Charles Spaniel and which is an annoyingly long name to have to say every time someone asks what his breed is, which they inevitably will ask). Finding him on that lonely Thursday night was truly serendipitous, or at least Googledipitous. A few days later, I went to meet Percy and fell in love. And just a few hours later, overwhelmed by cuteness and financial anxiety, I picked Percy up and was out the door, carrying in my arms a tiny little life that would depend on me for the next decade, at least.

I’m never one to jump into rash action. I generally make very careful decisions, even for small things like buying clothing or choosing which brand of toothpaste to buy (see: doubt, indecisiveness, paralyzing fear of buyer's remorse). Despite all of my daydreams about having a dog and even all of the research I was doing, I suddenly was terrified that I’d done something crazy. I’m a single, childless, 27-year-old who lives alone, with not even many friends in town yet to answer to—ultimate freedom.  But now I was tied down to a creature that needs to pee every 3 hours and who wants to chew all my favorite shoes and eat everything within reach that may kill him.

As if Percy’s adorable face wasn’t enough to quell my fears, it was something my Dad said that really made me relax: “I had two kids at your age.” It made me realize how truly simple this balance really is. I’m not giving something up; I’m just trading it for something even better. So I’m letting responsibility stop being a four-letter word and just allowing it to be the 14-letter word it really is.

And on the bright side, now I get to see what the grass outside my apartment looks like at 4am or 5am, I no longer leave anything laying on the floor, and my clothing budget, which is now a dog toy and vet budget, keeps me from, you know, being too vain. Plus, that rug really needed a good cleaning. If you’ve ever owned a dog, I don’t need to go on about the benefits of ownership.

After this [freaking adorable but interminably frustrating] puppy phase is done, what I’m left with is the most loyal little friend anyone could ask for. I can’t help but wonder what Percy and I will experience together (once he’s gotten over the thrill of, like, eating socks and leaves). He could be with me when I’m 40—and I can’t even imagine being 28. I have no idea where I’ll be five years from now, but it’s comforting to know that Percy will be there, waiting anxiously to get fur all over my black shirt and to lick my face with his tongue that was probably just somewhere really gross.

I couldn’t be happier that I have this little dude in my life. So long, spontaneous day trips. Hello, little wet nose.

Lately, I've been thinking a lot about TV. I had an interesting discussion with a stranger recently about whether or not it's bad for you. I mean, like any good pseudo-intellectual hipster, I know that TV rots your brain and is enjoyed by boring philistines who live in suburbia, right? Now, I'm not swayed by said stranger's argument that TV is good because "life is about enjoyment," but I'll leave the hedonist debate for another time. The real questions: why do we love TV? And is it evil? And why is my generation so in obsessed with the idea of leaving it behind?

I do enjoy watching television. I wouldn't stop watching it altogether (although I will do week-long stints where I ban myself from it every now and then), but I do want to try to understand it.

First off, it's clear that, too often, TV is used as an escape from reality. I think that's fine every now and then, of course. God knows I could use a simple vacation from my own annoying inner voice at least once every couple days. But escaping reality like that too frequently, I think, really can make your brain start to rot a bit: problems go unaddressed, friends go uncalled, and creative ideas go unthought.

Television doesn't have to be such an escape though. Just this morning, as a way to make my hangover a bit more useful, I watched a documentary on Netflix that taught me a lot and made me think. If you're learning or are moved to action, is television really so much worse than reading a book? Don't get me wrong—I love reading, and I think the simplicity and intimacy of it can't really be replaced by anything (looking at you, Kindle)—but do the young, self-proclaimed philosophers of the world really have any right to stare down their mustachio-d noses at television-watchers and scoff?

Then there's these horrible reality shows like Honey Boo Boo. Why do we love to be voyeurs into the strange, mostly contrived lives of others? And do we learn anything about ourselves in the process? Do teenagers watch Teen Mom and then learn to practice safer sex? Do people watch Breaking Amish and then learn to be more tolerant of other religions and lifestyles? Maybe. I don't know what you'd learn from Honey Boo Boo, but the point is, even these supposedly mindless shows that we have to be ashamed to admit to liking in public, can offer us something. They can transport us to new places and show us things about others—or even ourselves—that we'd be hard-pressed to explore in any other avenue.

I think that, like anything else, television is what you make it. And like many other good things, I'm certain that it's best in moderation. Television can be addicting, and anything addictive should be approached with caution. I think that, when mixed in with other activities that lead to a better self, television is decidedly not evil. As for my generation pridefully ridding their homes of TVs, well, this wouldn't be the first time I wasn't cool enough to understand.