On talking to myself ( Is “doing nothing” a good use of your time? )

I don’t think spending any minute of my measly 80 years doing nothing is justifiable in any circumstance, but I guess it does depend on how “doing nothing” is defined. I could be physically inactive and imagine a story I made up in my head, and that is doing something to me. I could spend a good half hour alone with my dinner, savoring each bite without the distraction of having to talk to another person or trying to review calculus formulas, that is doing something. It isn’t difficult to make sure every moment is spent doing something, I just like to constantly ask myself why I am doing what I am doing. I could be doing something all the time, but some of those somethings are not a good use of my time. I would feel justified in binge watching Netflix for four hours if I truly enjoy it and it makes me happy. There comes a time when I can feel a lull: the show is no longer interesting to me, but I keep watching in hopes of finding that spark of excitement like I got so often in the beginning, and I keep watching, counting down the episodes as if they were a goal, just to have the satisfaction of finishing the storyline. That is when I am doing something, but that something is not worth it.
I try not to deprive myself of these small pleasures in life, like enjoying an episode of Netflix or treating myself to a peanut butter milkshake when I am craving them, because when I hold off and deny myself something I want so badly, it always somehow end up being disappointing when I do allow myself to indulge. Perhaps the anticipation has built up my expectations too high. My imagination push the experience way past its real life value, and I end up having to convince myself that it is just as good as I imagined it. After all, I spent the last hour measuring and mixing with the glimmer of the waffle I told myself I could have after I finish. So when I take my first bite into the waffle and it wilts sadly between my teeth instead of giving a satisfying crunch, I would chewy heartily anyway. Mm, maple syrup… yum. Distracting myself from the lackluster texture with an extra glop of that sticky golden nectar of the gods, I try to convince myself it was worth it. Searching for attributes to justify the painstaking process I put myself through and the stack of dirty bowls with spoons and spatulas sticking out amidst a countertop covered in streaks of splattered batter. Was it worth it? Well it would be rather depressing to tell myself it was all a waste of efforts and time, isn’t it? Like a questionable impulse purchase I can’t undo, the only thing left to do is to make peace with my decision. The expensive pasta does not taste half as good as it looks? Well, maybe that excess of acidity is intentional, and that strange odor from the breadcrumbs is an acquired taste I have yet to learn to appreciate. I am usually good at talking myself into things, but it makes me wonder sometimes whether what I tell myself is indicative of my true beliefs. Do I really enjoy the first season of Black Mirror, or did I merely expected the meaningful storyline and beautiful cinematography to make up for the slow plot? I struggled to keep my attention, only getting through the first half hour with the knowledge that the plot twist at the end will make it all worth it. But in the moments before that, was my time worth it? I tell myself it is, but if I hadn’t talked myself into thinking so, would it? I don’t know how I would even tell them apart, but there must be a difference.