Potato Life: Then vs. Now
It’s funny how what counts as relaxing changes as we age.
When I was younger, relaxing meant going places. A day at the beach? I was there. An all-day bike ride? Sign me up. Amusement parks? Absolutely. Sitting still wasn’t rest—it was boring. Adventure was how you unwound, and the energy for it seemed endless.
Back then, money meant freedom. If I wanted some, I’d mow lawns, do yard work, clean—anything to get a little cash. That money meant I could buy things myself, no waiting, no asking.
One of the most important things I ever bought was a bike. Not a want—a need. My old one was constantly breaking down, and I was forever patching it just to get by. That bike was how I got to school, to work, to friends’ houses—it was my independence. So I saved, worked, and bought a reliable new one.
And then my parents took it away.
Because show choir practice ran late—something they wanted me to be part of but didn’t like the hours for—they decided to punish me. They didn’t ground me, didn’t yell. Instead, they took my bike, the one I worked for, the one I needed, and handed it to someone else. That wasn’t theirs to take, and that’s what burned. It wasn’t about the bike itself—it was about losing something I had worked for, something I had earned, to a decision that wasn’t mine. That sense of betrayal has stayed with me ever since.
If my sister had needed a bike, I would have helped her find one that fit her. I was already working nearly 30 hours a week, paying for clothes, outings, even my own school trip to California. I had no problem sharing what I had. But this wasn’t sharing—it was being stripped of something essential, and it cut deep.
So I rebelled. I bought another bike, an even better one, and I refused to leave it where it could be claimed again. I locked it up across the street with the other bikes. When my mom asked why I didn’t just bring it home, my teenage honesty slipped out: “Because I don’t want you to steal something else I paid for.” That earned me a beating, but that bike was never taken. My point must have landed.
Now, life looks different.
I work long hours, and when I get home, most of my energy goes into being a parent. I love my kids, but raising them while juggling work and bills doesn’t leave much left in the tank. The thought of doing the all-day outings I once lived for—bike rides, beaches, amusement parks—feels exhausting. Sure, those things still happen once in a while, but not like they used to. And honestly? I don’t miss them as much as I thought I would.
Because spending money just to “relax” doesn’t appeal to me anymore. In my youth, money meant freedom, escape, adventure. Now, it feels tied to bills, to planning, to stretching the paycheck far enough. Dropping cash on some getaway or outing isn’t relaxing—it’s stressful. I’d rather hold onto that money, because real peace doesn’t cost me anything.
The best things for me now are the things I already have at home. A bed that adjusts just right, a massage feature humming against my back, and a good book in my hands. A warm cup of tea or coffee. My kids piled into bed or on the couch with me, blankets everywhere, a movie playing, everyone laughing at the same silly scene. That’s relaxing. That’s the stuff that matters.
And it’s not just quiet nights, either. We do family game nights—board games, card games, snacks spread across the table, hours of laughter and ridiculous rules that mysteriously get “bent” when someone is losing. In the summer, we light up the fire pit out back, roasting marshmallows and making s’mores while the kids try to see who can set theirs on fire the fastest (apparently that’s a competition now). Sometimes we set up a projector in the yard, pile onto blankets under the stars, and turn the backyard into our own personal movie theater. Even baking with the littles in the kitchen becomes an adventure—flour everywhere, too much sugar sneaked into mouths instead of bowls, and cookies that somehow always vanish faster than they cool.
We call all of this “potato-ing.” Doing nothing extraordinary, just being together, cozy and content. And the truth is, it’s better than any beach trip or amusement park ever was.
When I was young, money meant adventure. Now, it means stability. But the real adventure these days is finding joy in the simple things—loving what I have, and who I have with me. That’s the best way to Potato.
Until next time, keep the coffee strong and the chaos manageable.
The Overbooked Life 
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