The other day I turned 40. The day after that I woke up and it occurred to me that I had no vices. It made me feel sad. Isn’t there a saying somewhere about how all men need to have at least one vice to keep them sane, or something like that?
I used to smoke cigarettes, but gave them up a couple of months ago. Actually, I never smoked that much in the first place. I’ve smoked dope, but only ever casually when friends or acquaintances had it. I never found it that much fun, anyway. Actually, one time I had too much to smoke on a remote Thai island in the company of some unpleasant veteran travellers, and found myself getting slightly paranoid while dodging the lethal coconuts falling all around me on the unlit path back to my hut. The roof of the hut next to mine had been bashed in by falling coconuts. I found that unnerving.
I haven’t drunk that much alcohol in my time, and don’t plan to. I like a coupla beers of a Saturday evening in a cozy pub. Or maybe on the patio deck under the stars. That’s not a vice. Maybe I should cultivate an affectation like collecting obscure brands of absinthe? Hmmm. Nah.
I enjoyed my share of libidinous escapades before I met my wife, though nothing shocking, really. I’ve contemplated having an affair or procurring the services of a professional now and then, but have to say I just don’t have enough desire, i.e. I can’t be bothered. The risk to a good relationship really isn’t worth it to me.
So what is there? I’m not interesting in collecting things, so that’s out. Hobbies, well, I’ve got a few, but collecting 7,634 MP3s of my favourite bands and cycling and table tennis can’t really be counted as vices. My life needs a dash of vinegar to give it a twist, but I’m flummoxed as to what that should be.