A GUIDE ON HOW TO RELAX BY A WORKAHOLIC
Pauly has a workshop in the warehouse where my studio is, he’s always here…drill, sander, nail gun or phone always in hand. He’s an antique furniture restorer referred to as Nick Knack Cave, known for his insane furniture and clever Instagram captions. I always envy the furniture he’s taking photos of against the white wall. I had him write out these steps for our seventh issue—as you will soon find out, like most people forging a career for themselves—he isn’t all that good at relaxing. This, alongside the way he puts his Instagram captions together, made me think he may have something great to say. Turns out he does. Follow these steps (or not) to learn how to become a relaxed workaholic just like Paul…
“Work is important to me. I like it, I spend a lot of my time doing it and thinking about doing it. It brings me joy but it also eventually makes me sleepy. As a furniture restorer/dealer, there is only so much chrome you can polish and chewing gum you can scrape before your hands seize up. Because of this, eventually, you will need to sit down and chill. I've heard that most people enjoy this stage of the cycle, but for me, when home time closes in, I feel a mild sense of impending doom.
I have an inkling my unhealthy relationship with work started early. From the moment I was four years old and I 'helped' my dad build a sand pit by carrying a single bucket of sand from one end of the yard to the other and he said ‘You're a hard worker Paul,’ I've been hooked on the drug of work life imbalance ever since.
Things really went intravenous though when I started my own business. From that point, down time really became something to be feared. You can't spend all day and night in the workshop though. So when I'm not, l keep the anxiety at bay by giving myself fun little jobbies. Like drawing psychopathic mind maps on my bedroom wall, trying to decipher how I became such an out of whack individual. So, in light of this, I've created a seven step guide so you too can become just like me. You're welcome.
STEP ONE
Spend the first 10 or so years of your life doing work you despise. For me, that was washing dishes and baking muffins. So many banana and cinnamon muffins. Having friends your age doing jobs they actually like is also great during this step. Make sure you scroll feverishly through the Insta stories of them touring the south of France in a pop punk band while you're taking your 15 minute allotted lunch break next to the skip bin in the back alley.
STEP TWO
Find your thing. Stumble into something you like or are maybe even good at. Something that works with your lack of institutionalised education, your street smarts, your ability to furnish your home with nothing but curbside junk—that weird party trick—then, monetize it.
STEP THREE
Have a minor win. Sell a chair for a $40 profit, post a video to TikTok that is shared twice, make a handshake deal with the local co-op to stock five jars of your signature pickled eggs. It's working. The cogs of capitalism in your tiny machine are beginning to turn.
STEP FOUR
Have a minor or major downturn in sales. This step is usually out of your control. I've found international war or a rise in interest rates is perfect here. Sometimes though, you can manufacture your own calamity. Consider spreading a rumour that your product contains tiny plastic beads, or maybe that a cofounder was an associate of Harvey Weinstein. This should have its desired effect and bring your business to its knees. The fun, the excitement and optimism, start to fade. Terror's icey talons begin to caress the small of your sweaty back.
STEP FIVE
Realise you can work your way out of it. Stay back late, do a double shift, do a bloody triple shift, broaden your product line with a new pickled fig addition. Write a press release stating that you lost your way and that you are making a commitment to working on yourself while pledging 2% off all future profits will go to the 'Save the Turtles Foundation'. Things are starting to turn around. Maybe your little capitalist machine still has life left in those cogs.
STEP SIX
Get your reality check. You realise that your machine is not made of concrete and chrome but more soft boiled eggs and toffee. Tough times are always just around the corner and the good times, while exhilarating, are fleeting. But, with hard work and long hours, you might be able to weasel your way out if it. From here on in, time spent not working is time your beloved machine is dissolving in the rain.
STEP SEVEN
At the end of a long week you're exhausted and attempt this relaxation thing. You succeed but it tastes slightly different to how those around you do it. While they just sit at the beach, you sit at the beach and do your taxes. They change the water in flower vases, you change the van’s brake pads, they scour op shops for clothes, you scour for stock. It all makes you feel restored but, really, in some way, it’s all just greasing the cogs. You envy their pure brand of switching off. But if you're honest with yourself, even if you could change it, you wouldn't swap your synthetic, cut version for anything. In fact, you're proud of it.
Now the process is complete. I hope together we can whine about the RSI in our hands, our aching backs, our impending deadlines and also, the immense pride we have in keeping our little machines chugging along. I have chosen my path. Now join me. Please? I'm very lonely.
CAPTURED BY: LACHY STARLING
