My husband Matt grew up in a home where it was considered necessary to have a hobby. One could not be an interesting person without a hobby, according to his parents, and Matt, a natural-born people-pleaser, acquired a multitude of hobbies during his formative years, a few of which have stuck with him throughout his life. The stakes for hobbies in his home were high—it was not enough to have a mere interest in something. No, in Matt’s childhood home, one’s hobby must be useful. It must result in evidence—for Matt, this usually meant things made of wood. Sometimes furniture, but more frequently boxes. In Matt’s reasoning, one can never own too many desk-size wooden boxes, and thus our home has been resplendent with such boxes over the years, until they mysteriously disappear—a phenomenon for which I refuse to admit culpability—and are eventually replaced with more boxes. During our recent move, wooden boxes once again went missing, and so now my husband is in a box-generating phase, which will last for approximately one year, if past experience can be counted on as a reference.