I’ve realized my attitude towards work more closely resembles that of the British upper class of the Edwardian era than it does that of a modern American.

The idea that someone should desire or need a career or profession is distasteful to me. -Something to be done only out of necessity. Education ought to be pursued so that it can help you obtain an understanding of the world, not a job. And work is something to be suffered to your detriment, and does nothing to build your character except to make you better able to suffer through yet more work in the future.

My attitude towards work varies though depending on the motivation for it.

Cooking my own dinner is work that I enjoy. And I would feel I was missing something if I knew I was never going to feel the sensation of kneading a dough ever again. Though if I had to work as a baker for money, I’m sure I’d be right sick of it after only a few months. Tending a small garden is enjoyable. Whereas toiling in a massive field hand-picking a harvest for an hourly wage would be misery. Retro-fitting a car would be fun, but working full-time in a body shop would get tiring. Making a legal argument can be stimulating, but rehashing the same subjects day in and out down into minutiae would just get kind of boring.

I suppose you could construe my attitude as an immature obsession with novelty. Maybe that’s fair. Though I am quite good at putting up with work and trying to focus on the best parts of it. But I never kid myself that I wouldn’t be better off not having to do it all.

I think there’s a bit of a fear among the young, financially independent, of being thought of as merely shiftless and lazy. “What’s the matter, you can’t handle work? Are you not up to it? You know it’s good for you, don’t you?” And so we insist that we will be volunteering, ‘working’ on our investments, or taking occasional jobs for fun even in our early retirements. As if to say, “See! We’re not lazy!”

If we had some Edwardian friends we wouldn’t have to face this. Our desire to go fly fishing all afternoon, visit with friends, or simply to take a stroll through the garden, not breaking a sweat all day, would just be seen as normal and appropriate. The idea that we ought to go work in some way because we would be the better for it would just be seen as silly.

I think there’s some fear too, that is struck in the hearts of men, when you question whether work really is good for the soul, or simply something to be endured. So many have convinced themselves that they are content because of a hard day’s work, rather than in spite of it. And the idea, that they actually would be happier if they could realize their occasional dreams of being on a permanent vacation, is poisonous to their contentment that relies on a belief that pulling themselves out of bed and into their work boots after ever-insufficient rest is actually contributing to their well-being.

Then there are the financially independent who do work by choice, in the same field for decades, who must surely look at me and wonder how I could possibly be happy spending days often doing no more than just puttering around the house, or the garden, or having coffee with old people. All we can do is gawk at each other from afar, across a chasm too far to bridge, and wonder in amusement at how the other could possibly be happy.