Open up your Instagram feed. What do you see? Fresh-cut peonies. A woman in the middle of her sun salutations series atop a mountain. A runner in the final stretch of a marathon. Instead of these polished moments of triumph, how great would it be to see a snap that shows someone at their worst? The moment their muscles clenched at the ten-mile mark. The split-second when the ceramic pot spins off the wheel and splats on the ground. What if people posted images of those far more frequent mess-ups and total wipeouts for all their followers to see?
We now live in a moment of aspirational dread on social media. And it’s hit our hobbies hard. Instead of just going for a run, you have to share a picture of your mile count in the health app. You can’t just macrame a wall hanging—you have to post daily progress on your stories. It seems there is little we do for the joy of doing it because we’re always trying to prove that we’re enough, by getting as many “likes” of approval as possible. This is especially true for women. We bear the brunt of the myth of perfection.
My hobby is surfing. It isn’t something I picked up during a quick trip to Baja last year. I’ve been at it for almost two decades. When I’m in the water, it’s not cute. I don’t live in a tricked-out camper van parked near a mellow beach break. Picture Blue Crush. Now picture the opposite of that.
While I can surf, I also kind of suck. I’m goofy and the opposite of cool. Sometimes I eat shit. But, oh my god, is it fun. Surfing is something I don’t have to be good at. I don’t do it for the boomerangs, or to filter the picture later. I just do it for me, and I don’t spend time worrying what I look like when I get up on that wave—or how it’ll look to other people when I show them later.
One of the best rides ever happened as I struggled to catch a wave. In the dog-eat-dog world of the lineup on the water, a moment’s hesitation tends to mean that a better surfer will score the wave you’ve missed. On this particular occasion, a surfer who witnessed my struggle paddled up behind me and called me into a swell line. He even made the effort to give me a tail push to help me catch it. He didn’t know me, and he could have taken the wave for himself, but instead helped a kook in the lineup just to be nice. I love that guy. I caught the wave and rode it to well, but that wasn’t the best part. His act of kindness was the best part. That moment won’t be recorded on video or posted and re-posted on Instagram. But the feeling of connection—even if just for a moment—has remained with me ever since.
When I finally decided to come clean about being a sucky surfer, I posted an Instagram video of me looking like the goof that I am. I’m wearing a blue, unflattering, one-piece neoprene suit that makes my less-than-lithe body look even lesser lithe. I paddle into the wave and pop up with too much effort. Even though I catch it and turn left to ride the wave’s face, my arms fly up in an effort to balance, making me look like a football referee calling a touchdown. Worse, I’m standing too far back on my board to gain any speed. Instead of a cool kick out with the flip of my hair, I just flop over. Instagram accounts that gain followers in the surf world are filled with the graceful, the talented, and the beautiful. (And there’s that van again, dammit.) But, to my surprise, when I posted myself in all my glory-lessness, thick-bodied and awkward, instead of feeling shame, I felt a kind of freedom.
