Niksen in Quarantine: The Puritans, The Dutch, and Sweatpants

I have exactly zero complaints about our collective coronavirus “safe at home” lockdown. Not to brag, but I’m flat out masterful at sitting still and staring at things. An observer might think I’m feeling totally serene while my brain pings all over the place—thoughts bouncing around like a noisy old-school arcade pinball machine, swatted in all directions with those crazy flippers controlled by button-pushing adolescent gamers.

Quarantine doesn’t bother me. At all. I have no problem social distancing or having groceries delivered, nor do I have an unrelenting urge to go out to dinner at a half-empty restaurant—especially an eatery where the management has filled the requisite empty seats with blow-up dolls or mannequins in 1940s attire, (i.e., instant appetite suppressants) to help their human diners feel less alone. The German idea for distancing with pool noodle hats is more clownish than creepy but I would be continuously consumed with anxiety for the servers making their way through those colorful PVC turnstiles while balancing multiple plates of food. Not enjoyable.

Forbes Magazine May 19, 2020

Now and then I think it would be fun to poke around at Target while sipping on a Starbucks sugar bomb and filling a ridiculously oversized shopping cart with a bounty of things nobody needs. It’s a trivial pursuit but, to be fair, when asked what she wanted to do after leaving the White House one of the things on Michelle Obama’s list was “go to Target.” She’s so relatable, right? This itchy notion of mine usually doesn’t last long because my inner adult sternly reminds me that such an outing isn’t worth the risk of contracting a deadly disease. Smarmy politicians and their corporate puppeteers can clamor all they want about “opening up the economy.” I shall stay put.

It’s easy to understand that some people have a fundamental need to get out and DO something; after all, Abraham Maslow’s familiar “hierarchy of needs” is based on his theory that human beings are motivated by unsatisfied needs. I get that. Some of us humans have a strong need to experience the sensory affirmation of the outdoors or maybe the gym (so many droplets—yikes), while others seek the tranquility of a tattoo parlor or the restorative energy of a hunting/gathering trip to Costco. Thank goodness the local gyms and tattoo shops and sports bars opened safely so that those of us who enjoy visiting public libraries can fearlessly roam the stacks again now that we’ve progressed to our next opening phase. Because ‘Murica. You know, freedom and guns and stuff.

Unless you’ve been living in a fundamentalist cult for the past few decades, you have likely experienced a condition that American workers in particular seem to suffer from: The Productivity Mindset. While other countries and cultures celebrate the importance of napping and going “on holiday,” we’ve been conditioned to believe we must be productive at all times lest we turn out to be a bunch of good-for-nothing heathens. What’s my rationale for how we got here? IT’S TOTALLY THE PURITANS’ FAULT. They ruined everything with their oppressive all work/no play dogma. You’ve never seen Goody Proctor getting a mani-pedi, have you? Didn’t think so. Please let me know what’s on your “Good Things The Puritans Did For Us” bingo card. Take your time. I’ll wait. Really.

We’ve normalized the idea that doing one thing at a time isn’t enough because if you’re not a super multi-tasker then what are you even doing with your life? And don’t get me started about parents who schedule activities out the wazoo for their kids. Streams of social media posts and feature stories about what some humans are doing while quarantined only magnify our misguided conflation of Busyness and Worthiness. Ads for finding the perfect “productivity coach” don’t motivate me to “self-optimize” in the least. I am not inspired to learn Portuguese or to re-grout something, nor do I want to join the ranks of newbie sourdough bread makers who are allegedly responsible for a recent flour shortage, according to one of way too many news outlets I follow. I don’t even like sourdough bread. My “Quarantine Hierarchy of Needs” list is short: Coffee, books, iPad, New York Times crossword puzzles, and Cavalier King Charles Spaniels. And snacks. People snacks and dog snacks. Luckily, we like the same kinds of cheese.

Toward the end of last year before COVID-19 began to overtake our lives, I noticed a steady trickle of articles and book reviews about the Dutch concept of “niksen” in major newspapers and magazines. I immediately dove into the niksen rabbit hole and quickly discovered My People. I’ve never felt so seen. Among the fruits of my googling is a tiny book titled Niksen: The Dutch Art of Doing Nothing. I was hooked when I read the definition on the cover: “to idle; to lounge around; to sit around; to lounge about; to hang about; to do nothing much; to stand around.” Its format is similar to Jack Handey’s satirical Deep Thoughts series from the 1990s (as seen on SNL), featuring a photograph on one page paired with a non-satirical niksen note on the facing page. Please note that I’m opting out of this chance to use the terms recto and verso because I don’t want you to think I’m a snob.

Author Carolien Janssen cites practical examples of this sanctioned Dutch activity such as staring out a window or sitting on a couch. My favorite part of her foreword: “Niksen helps us to slow down and celebrate the moment of not achieving…similar to mindfulness, yet you don’t need anything special to do nothing.” Great news: I have attained a highly proficient level of not achieving, followed by satisfying moments of celebrating my non-achievements. If you’re curious to know more, you’ll find plenty of reading material online. Now I’m wondering if there’s an online community of niksen practitioners but that seems counterintuitive, no?

Among the many pandemic-driven changes we’ve had to accept, it seems that daily wardrobe choices are problematic for some people as they’ve adapted to working from home. I’ve read several amusing posts about lockdown life in elastic waist pants, “door pants” kept near the entryway in case you need to step outside to retrieve a parcel, the quandary of determining the proper time to change from day pajamas to cocktail pajamas, etc. Predictably, sweatpants have become a staple of the WFH lifestyle. And now I must confess a lamentable turn of events in my own household. My husband is Dutch and has lived in the U.S. for a very long time; his default decision-making method is the famously pragmatic Netherlandish approach. Over time he has created very simple wardrobe options for himself—all denim and sneakers for business travel, workout clothes for everyday—not unlike the black turtleneck people of Silicon Valley.

I was surprised to learn a couple of years ago that he was unfamiliar with the American garment we call sweatpants, whereupon I made a ruinous error: I bought him a couple of pairs of men’s fleece sweatpants (with pockets) at Target. It turns out that the famous Seinfeld “Again with the sweatpants?” jab at George is based in truth, as well as the late Karl Lagerfeld’s “Sweatpants are a sign of defeat,” commentary. The Dutch Husband is so happy with his basic American sweatpants that he wears them almost exclusively, usually with a hoodie. (No doubt he has fully assimilated.) I’ve fielded the, “Can I wear these?” question many times in various situations. No. No, you can’t wear sweatpants when someone invites you to their home for dinner. I’ve abandoned all hope of seeing him in normal jeans or trousers for other routine activities. Rather, I do my best to keep his beloved sweatpants laundered and free of dog hair before he leaves the house.

The Dutch Husband has presented a credible rebuttal in favor of his daily combo of sweatpants and brown leather Dansko clogs. He informed me that this “look” is similar to the traditional men’s attire in the old fishing village of Volendam in North Holland. The fishermen wore baggy woolen pants with their wooden clogs (klompen), a pragmatic choice that warmed and protected them from the elements as they did their work. He’s right. The “look” is similar.

By now the world has changed and so has Volendam. No longer a thriving fishing hub, it has become a kitschy tourist destination where visitors can sample smoked eel and have their pictures taken in traditional (stereotypical) Dutch costumes. I’ll leave you with this bit of unsolicited advice: Never buy sweatpants for your significant other. Just don’t. The risk is too great that she/he/they may never want to wear any other type of clothing. It’s too late for me but please save yourselves.

Blurbicide:* An unexpected episode of “Never judge a book by its cover.”

*Don’t worry. The book doesn’t die in this story but six—that’s six—criminally negligent proofreaders are still at large.  

Let’s be clear: I love shopping for books. And owning books and giving books and reading books and having stacks of unread books and touching books and browsing for books and keeping lists of books to consider buying. But—I’m not a diligent reader of book jacket blurbs. I glance at the contributors’ names and skim the statements that get my attention. Azar Nafisi? Yes, I’ll read her blurb any day. Joyce Carol Oates? Probably not. Apparently, I’m shallow that way. 

I have mad respect for the innumerable authors, publishers, and publicists who spend their days literally laboring over book blurbs. It’s big business. Google is rife with tips for snagging a celebrity promo or writing the ideal blurb that will really, really sell that new title. Granted, it’s hard to write something short and jam-packed with just the right information, witness the difficulties many users had with Twitter’s original 140-character limit. Or haiku, which I maintain is (are?) always a little too exquisite. 

***

Of course I had to go down the word origin rabbit hole looking for “blurb,” which sounds like something a dermatologist should examine rather than a glowing proclamation about a new publication. I still don’t know why a “blurb” is called a blurb but I did find an NPR story about the practice. It turns out we can thank American humorist Gelett Burgess, credited with coining the term in 1907. His 1906 book Are You a Bromide? (so weird) was released with a jacket depicting the fictitious Miss Belinda Blurb, “in the act of blurbing.” Now we can all take a moment to appreciate the gerund form of blurb. 

NPR photo

It’s not that I am anti-blurb. Don’t get me wrong. It’s just that I have difficulty with overenthusiasm in any form. That’s probably the root cause of my disinterest. My default reaction is distrust, similar to my response when introduced to someone whose handshake smashes my fingers. I also have a problem with overwrought make-believe words like “unputdownable,” which was included among the laudatory descriptors mentioned in the NPR piece. 

Conversely, blurbs that are deliberately ridiculous are somehow less annoying, e.g., the entire back cover of self-published The Amy Binegar-Kimmes-Lyle Book of Failures: A funny memoir of missteps, inadequacies, and faux pas. It’s probably true that I did feel 20-32% better about my own life after reading her book, as one blurber promised. The omniscient Amazon.com recommended this title “inspired by my browsing history” and I did enjoy it, mostly. Also, what a sad statement about my browsing habits.

***

Now we get to the blurbicide case.  [Cue ominous “Law and Order” underscoring.] 

Via The Guardian, we meet Roxy Jacenko, real person, Australian socialite and businesswoman, PR specialist and former contestant on Australia’s Celebrity Apprentice. Are you impressed so far? She wrote her latest book in a breezy six weeks; Roxy’s Little Black Book of Tips and Tricks is a “no-bullshit guide to PR, social media and building your brand.” Thank goodness for such a straightforward resource because I’m one of the millions of people who still hasn’t created a “personal brand.” For the record, the cover of Roxy’s new book is actually an outrageous hot pink; it is neither black nor little.

But wait—there’s more. Roxy has previously written three fiction titles and—color me not at all surprised—she’s married to a “high profile former stock broker” who was convicted of insider trading in 2016. These people make me nostalgic for the earnest heartlessness of Daisy Buchanan and Jay Gatsby. (Yes, I know Daisy and Jay aren’t real and that’s my point.) 

Author of four books. Miley Cyrus lookalike. Roxy’s Marie Claire magazine photo.

All of the advance copies of Roxy’s new book had to be pulped because of a proofreading oversight. Pulped! Such a waste. An erroneous submission from Roxy’s friend and radio/television personality Jackie O proclaimed Ms. Jacenko “never fails to disappoint.” You are not misreading that quote. Jackie concludes her blurb with, “…this book is an easy, interesting read that people in a lot of professions (not just PR) could learn something from.” 

The whole blurb makes my head hurt. How did that word salad get past six proofreaders? Six people. That’s twelve eyes, we can assume.  The publisher has not disclosed how many copies were printed with the error. Roxy dismissed her girlfriend’s mistake, saying the blurb should have read “never fails to deliver.” Whatever. You do you, Roxy. 

***

This mindless “never fails to disappoint” episode reminds me of one of my all-time favorite wits in the realm of dark humor, the late Oscar Levant. He could have uttered that same statement about a restaurant he frequented or any person, place, or thing in his orbit. Levant was indeed a genius. He authored Memoirs of An Amnesiac, among other sardonic titles, and was an incredibly gifted pianist and composer, film actor, and radio/television personality. Levant was also a notorious hypochondriac who wrote about his struggles in a brilliantly self-deprecating style that only he could pull off. About himself he said, “Underneath this flabby exterior is an enormous lack of character.” You see? It’s funny when it’s intentional. 

***

In the realm of less-notable-but-no-less-egregious oversights, I will leave you with two images from the hallowed cinder block halls of academia where I used to teach. These are actual signs posted in an actual school. We will never know how many sets of careless eyes these linguistic atrocities passed in production, from the original work order to the engraver to the custodian who stuck them to the hard surfaces they cling to still. And I’ve never been arthorized but I hear it’s not pleasant. 

Summer Reading Confessional

“Oh, scabrous day! Callooh! Callay!” *

I always chortle* with joy upon discovering new words, don’t you? Hear me out, please.

Maybe it’s a sign of high intelligence or maybe it’s undiagnosed adult-onset ADHD but my habit of reading more than one book at a time seems increasingly irreversible, although I have yet to unlock the skill level of my friend who can read a print book and listen to a different audiobook simultaneously.

This summer my brain has been hanging out with Joan Didion, Ann Patchett, Jenny Lawson, Anne Lamott, Maira Kalman, and Delia Ephron. Before you accuse me of blatant misandry, I should say that I’ve also been reading some Tom Hanks and David Sedaris, and—I’m slightly embarrassed to note—Michael Wolff’s Fire and Fury: Inside the Trump White House.  

Mind you, I have no real interest in Michael Wolff, Trump, et al, but I do have an impulse control problem when I see a New York Times op-ed titled “Everyone in Trump World Knows He’s an Idiot” (Michelle Goldberg, 01/04/18). True enough, but I had to slow my roll at the beginning of her third paragraph which reads: “Wolff’s scabrous book comes out on Friday.” The briefest of Google searches revealed the distasteful reasons behind my ignorance of the term “scabrous.” Maybe that’s a word you use on the regular but it was new to me.

Now it’s Labor Day weekend, Fire and Fury has deservedly plummeted from its January best-seller status, and Michael Wolff has pretty much vanished following his underwhelming television book tour. It was all kinds of fun to watch Fred Armisen’s blistering SNL portrayals, I have to admit.

Eight months post-release, picking up my copy of Fire and Fury is like reading an old People magazine in the dentist’s office waiting room. All the insider gossip Wolff and his publisher hyped just doesn’t deliver a punch anymore. We are bombarded every day with the overwhelming incompetence of the “president” and his lack of intellect/cognitive ability. We’re tired of all the winning. It’s not funny. We know he is surrounded by indescribably unfit people. Duh. At least Omarosa’s Unhinged copycat book tour was mercifully brief and her sales numbers took a precipitous turn in short order.

***

I confess that I totally fell for the Fire and Fury “liberal catnip” Jonathan Martin so aptly described in his January 8, 2018 Times book review. I also confess that I did not read the book review until after I’d started reading the book. Moreover, I should allow that to claim I “finished” the book really means I did a LOT of skimming—a cringeworthy reminder of the response many of my former high school English students must have felt as they were forced to comply with the dreaded Summer Reading Assignment.

Once upon a time, in a department-wide attempt to mitigate the ickiest parts of the reading requirement, the English faculty decided that incoming freshmen should be assigned a memoir or biography of their choosing; in turn, I crafted what I considered to be a clever and engaging oral (easy) assessment for my classes: Each student would tell the class about his/her selected title, including its subject, their reason for choosing, and the most unexpected thing they learned about the person.

Everything went along pretty well, with most students telling us about famous athletes, pop stars, adventurers and entrepreneurs, except for one kid: Jacob Berdichevsky. He had read a LONG biography of the long-dead Golda Meir. His reason: “It was the only one in our house.” I immediately gave him full credit for the assignment based on his reticent courage and for having survived the blank stares and utter disinterest of his classmates. Reading and talking about what you’ve read shouldn’t be a painful experience. Ever.

***

In that same vein of compassion/acceptance and in order to rationalize my investment of time, money, and cognitive real estate, I find it helpful to acknowledge that I have gleaned a handful of largely useless things from my slog through Fire and Fury.

1.  Michael Wolff really loves to flex his vocabulary and I love collecting new words, Yiddish or otherwise. It’s nice to be reminded of adjectives like “benighted” and “hortatory,” although they (among others) seem a tad fancy for this tabloid-ish text. References to “gossip squibs” and phrases like “rambled and fumphered” sent me racing for the dictionary and that’s my favorite way to do cardio, so, bonus!

2.  GOP super donor/Bannon backer Robert Mercer has a Steinway grand on his yacht and prefers to sit and play the piano for hours rather than interact with his human guests. Who needs people skills when you have a squillion dollars and can afford to buy all the politicians you want? I do want to know what he plays, though. Show tunes? Jerry Lee Lewis? Yanni? So many options.

3.  Many of the most dangerous people Wolff writes about have already exited the White House—some of whom are on their way to court, like Flynn, Bannon, and Manafort. We must take our small comforts where we find them, right?

***

On top of the embarrassment I’m schlepping around in my head for buying, reading, and writing about Fire and Fury, there is the problem of getting rid of a book I no longer want. I confess that I am physically incapable of putting a book in the trash. I cannot deal with the guilt that comes with putting a book in the recycle bin. I guess that makes me a book hoarder and, if you’ll excuse me for a moment, I’ll pile on the accompanying shame and guilt about that, too. Maybe I should call myself a Super Compulsive Book Protector instead and pretend I have a magical cape that hides all the books I’ve bought but haven’t read yet.

I’m happy to report that a disposal solution was waiting literally around the corner from my house via the neighborhood Little Free Library. It’s staked out right next to the neighborhood Little Free Dog Poop bags so it’s hard to miss. What a relief to nestle Mr. Wolff’s title alongside lots of worn Nora Roberts paperbacks and several other non-threatening offerings (Little Visits with God devotionals, anyone?). I’m comfortable calling it a win-win-win for the dog walkers, the seekers of free books, and the people who can’t throw away books.

*with apologies to Lewis Carroll for my “Jabberwocky” scabrous-rhymes-with-frabjous reflex, even though he was kind of a photography creeper and quite possibly a pedophile. Go ask Alice. [your groan here]