If you think you’ll be happier staying home, you’re wrong.
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In much of Manhattan, the average speed of traffic before the pandemic had fallen to 7 miles per hour. In Midtown, it was less than 5 m.p.h. That’s only slightly faster than walking and slower than riding a bike. Will traffic soon be worse than ever? Not if we choose another path.
Burned out and flush with savings, some workers are quitting stable jobs in search of postpandemic adventure.
The number of older adults who use cannabis is on the rise, and some health experts are concerned.
Scrolling through real estate listings in far-flung destinations is a way to visualize an alternate life, whether you’re trying to move or not.
The office, for the foreseeable future, is dead. Google and Facebook are telling employees they can work remotely until 2021. Twitter is allowing employees to work from home “forever.” A number of big banks are contemplating never fully refilling their office towers in Manhattan. Last week, my colleague Matthew Haag wrote a thoroughly depressing story in which the chief executive of Halstead Real Estate asked him point blank: “Looking forward, are people going to want to crowd into offices?” Call me crazy, but I’m still thinking: Yes. Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow, but someday. The modern office may be the target of bleak caricature — the lighting is bad, the meetings are long, the only recourse to boredom is filching a colleague’s stapler and embalming it in lemon Jell-O (if you work at Dunder Mifflin). But over the coming months, I suspect that those of us who spent most of our careers in offices will grow to miss them.
My wanting to share every waking thought became eclipsed by a desire for an increasingly rare commodity — a private life.
We asked you for the best advice anyone’s ever given you, and how it made an impact on your life. Here’s what you said. “Wise advice: You made the best decision you could with the information you had at the time.”
But there’s a deeper reason, I’ve come to think, that so many people don’t have hobbies: We’re afraid of being bad at them. Or rather, we are intimidated by the expectation — itself a hallmark of our intensely public, performative age — that we must actually be skilled at what we do in our free time. Our “hobbies,” if that’s even the word for them anymore, have become too serious, too demanding, too much an occasion to become anxious about whether you are really the person you claim to be.