The Novelty Trap

Sam just wrote a couple of posts about mowing the lawn.  This happens to be one of the chores with which I have the very worst associations.  I think of hot, humid southern summers, dust & clippings blowing in my eyes, and the invariably negative judgment of my stepfather-at-the-time of anything that I did yard work-wise.  (Not perfect enough.  Do again.)

Far be it from me to dissuade Sam from his enjoyment of mowing the lawn.  But I did worry, reading his post, that he was falling into the Novelty Trap.  (Sam has gone and added an asterisk to his enjoyment of lawn-mowing!  Whatever.  I soldier on.)
Sam came away from his lawn-mowing experience with a relationship epiphany, a new creative outlet, and increased skill in the activity itself: +2 Lawnmowing.  Specifically here, Sam was figuring out how to solve the problem of his yard -- how best to mow it.  Learning new things and solving new problems are primary motivators, especially (though not exclusively) for smart kids with nerdy tendencies.

In my own life, I find this surfacing most often in my relationship to my work and to my quite long commute to get to that work.  Doing the same hour-plus (each way) drive every day does wear on a man's soul, and the only real buffer against mental collapse that I've found is to vary my route occasionally.  I'm not sure that any changes I make at this point really speed up the drive -- or slow it down, for that matter.  But the occasional variation allows me to see new things and to feel like I'm learning something, even if all I'm learning is how one road connects to another.  I'm doing my best, though, to add freshness and novelty to what is otherwise just a chore.

But that can't last forever.  At some point, I'll know all there is to know about every possible (reasonable) commute route.  In Sam's case, at some point, the problem of the yard will be solved.  It will, I worry, cease to present the satisfying mental challenge and novelty of experience it once did.  And then you're just pushing a machine around in the heat and humidity, dust and clippings sticking to the sweat on your face and arms and legs, hands pulsating painfully from the steady buzz of that awful little engine.  Then it's just a chore.

For now, though, it's all new and fascinating and blog post-worthy.

As most of us have learned by the time we hit young adulthood, this novelty trap is most nefarious when it comes to romantic relationships.  New relationships are exciting, full of passion and the joy of discovery.  You're learning all kinds of things about your new partner's personality and life and -- we're all grown-ups here -- body.  Inevitably, though, that voyage of discovery reaches its furthest shore.  The unknown has become the known, and woe unto the restless pioneer for whom contentedness and stillness are mutually exclusive, who must always seek the next frontier.  Some people (and some relationships) can't withstand that transition from novelty to familiarity.  You wake up one day, and it's just a chore.

I wish Sam much continued success in his yard work endeavors, and I hope for his sake (and his yard's) that his enjoyment of the task does not wane.  I hope that the excitement and novelty of these heady pioneer days turns gradually and gracefully into the deep satisfaction of familiarity and a job well done.

But beware the intoxication of novelty.  It's ... well, you know what Admiral Ackbar says.