On The Delicious Art of Doing Nothing

There is something terribly unfashionable about doing nothing.

Everyone seems determined to optimize themselves now. Every idle hour must become productive. Every hobby must become profitable. Every morning requires a routine, every evening a ritual, and apparently one cannot simply drink a cup of coffee without considering whether it contributes sufficiently to one's goals.

How exhausting.

I have spent quite enough of my life being useful.

Some days I would rather be indulgent.

I want coffee that goes cold because I became distracted by a book. I want breakfast embarrassingly late in the afternoon. I want flowers bought for no occasion whatsoever and perfume worn when I have nowhere to be.

I want hours that produce absolutely nothing except my own enjoyment.

And no, I don't believe I need to exhaust myself first in order to deserve them.

There is a peculiar little morality attached to pleasure, particularly for women. Rest must be earned. Indulgence must be justified. Something lovely purchased for oneself requires an explanation.

How dreadfully tedious.

Perhaps I wanted it.

Perhaps it pleased me.

Perhaps that is reason enough.

I think there is tremendous luxury in possessing your own time. Not merely having an empty calendar, but refusing to feel guilty about leaving it empty.

So today I have accomplished very little.

I may continue accomplishing very little.

The world, remarkably, appears capable of surviving without my constant supervision.

How fortunate for us both.

— Lady Astoria