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Why is there no more delightful, satisfying feeling in the world than to blow off an obligation at the last minute?

I often think of a class I had in college, that met once a week for over two hours. On the first day of classes, the professor basically went over the syllabus and after 40 minutes or so, she said go ahead, get out of here. For the whole rest of the semester, I couldn’t bear sitting through that one class—because by letting us out early on day one she’d set an expectation of getting out of something. I always kind of resented that she had let us out early, just like I kind of wince when the owner of a restaurant gives me an extra little thing for free on the house. I think I feel like his generosity raises the mental cost of my gratitude. When there isn’t a freebie next time.

Another professor in another class had a saying for what was going on here: “It’s easier to do something 100 percent of the time than 99 percent of the time.”

I remember what a wonderful feeling it was to wake up see “class canceled this morning.” It was like winning the lottery. Or to wake up after not the best night’s sleep, back when I had a fairly flexible office job, and decide to just work from home that day. Actually working from home permanently doesn’t give that same delight of skipping an obligation; to get that feeling back, sometimes I half-seriously think of committing to something outside the house early in the morning just so I can wake up and decide to skip it.

When I talk about “eating your vegetables,” I’m thinking about this sort of thing. I have this tension where on the one hand, the stuff I write about and advocate for—walkable urbanism, small business, community, less reliance on the car—should be delightful and competitive on its own terms. Telling people to shop local or ride transit because it’s a sort of civic sacrifice isn’t going to work. Once you’re talking self-consciously about “support,” you’ve already conceded that your advocating for something inferior. Does anybody “support” Walmart or Amazon or the highway or big oil or big automobile? They just choose the easiest path.

But then, maybe at least conceptually, the notion of “civic sacrifice” is important. Maybe we should feel a little bit of friction; maybe that feeling of ugh, I have to go to work, and still doing it, is maturity. Or ugh, I have to slow down on this narrow street because people are out walking and biking. Or ugh, I’m stuck on this train with 100 random people, or ugh, I have to take out my headphones and actually interact with a human being, or listen to a baby crying, or exist among fellow people.

In other words, maybe remote work, in some ways, is a sort of playing hooky. Suburbia is a sort of playing hooky. Going everywhere ensconced in your private automobile is a sort of playing hooky. Reverse engineering a public realm in your backyard and your private housing development is a sort of playing hooky.

Maybe there really is an irreducible element of discomfort, inconvenience, or sacrifice inherent in really living in a society together. And maybe a lot of what passes for public policy and the “good life” is a denial of this truth—a negation of society.

The thing is, though, sometimes you need to play hooky to remind yourself that proverbially going to school is worth it.

Related Reading:

Getting Good at Doing Things Wrong

Digital Hoarding

The Real World

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