The greatest and most popular American pastime is not baseball or football or NASCAR.

It is not Black Friday shopping or debating whether chili should have beans in it.

It’s not politics, either.

No, the one thing that binds us all together is an ever-present need to semi-humbly brag about how darn busy we all are. All the time. Unrelentingly. Unfailingly. Indeed, we spend so much time talking about how busy we are that it becomes a self-fulfilling prophecy, which in turn makes us even more busy.

I’m certainly not innocent of these charges. In fact, with two jobs, an incessant need to travel, and endless fishing opportunities and tasks, I may be the poster boy for the affliction. It makes me feel like part of the club, along with the guys I know who say they “never get to fish because of work and family” and the one acquaintance who as part of every conversation says that he’s “up to my elbows in alligators” – except for those times when he’s even busier and “armpits” replaces “elbows.”

We use the fact of our exceptionally busy lives as both a sword and a shield – as a sort of humblebrag, as well as a way to prevent having to do other things that are unappealing. For me, it has become almost debilitating. Rather than occasionally spending an afternoon on the couch, or taking an aimless walk, or just “doing nothing,” I am forced into action by the threat of a wasted day. After worrying all day or all week about the things I need to get done, I’d feel like a jackass if I didn’t get them done.

No matter who you are, how talented you might be, or even if you can somehow squeeze a few more hours of effectiveness into a standard 24-hour day, there’s always more to do. More articles to write. More casts to make. More to give back. A busy life is a pie-eating contest where the prize is an endless supply of pie. At some point, the only solution is to put down the fork, push the plate away, take a sip of water, and sleep it off, without apologies.

All of this busy bee energy hurts my fishing. It hurts my writing. My hours doing both are substantial, and my output – especially for someone who also has a 50 hour a week job – is exceptional. I typically don’t stop long enough to enjoy it, though. When you’re always thinking about the next cast, you cannot adequately work the one in progress. So my resolution, such as it is, for 2023, is to slow down. Take a nap. Enjoy every bite of the sandwich. Indeed, even stop fishing long enough to eat the sandwich. And I intend to brag about it in the way I now brag about being overworked and insufficiently relaxed. I bet my fishing will improve along the way. I’m certain that my enjoyment of it will.

Thanks to all who read this column for a great 2022. Looking forward to a balanced 2023, and I hope you are, too – whatever that means for your own well-being.