It Costs a Moment
I went to the gym today and, before I could even get to the part where I pretend to enjoy cardio, I was presented with a small, unexpected decision. At the check-in counter there was a glass vase filled with jelly beans. You know the kind of setup: guess how many are in there, win the jar.
As I scanned in, I looked down at the sheet and saw there were already quite a few guesses written down. Numbers ranging from 89 to somewhere in the 800s, which felt less like estimation and more like people just picking numbers that felt right and hoping the universe would meet them halfway.
The guy at the desk—Matt—asked if I wanted to take a guess. You know me, responding to a question with a question, so I asked him if he knew how many were in there. He gave me one of those vague, non-answers that told me he either didn’t… or definitely did.
I told him I’d pass.
He smiled and said, “Why not? It costs you nothing to guess.”
“Not my thing,” I said, and traipsed off to the locker room like someone who had just taken a very principled stand on grave matters.
And I don’t know why, but Matt’s line stuck with me more than I expected.
Because on the surface, it’s true. It doesn’t cost anything. No money, no risk, no downside. Just be a normal, socially cooperative adult for three damn seconds to pick a number and keep it moving.
As I settled into my workout, I kept coming back to that interaction—because the little neurotic analyst in my brain had found something to chew on and refused to let it go. It costs nothing.
But that wasn’t true, I realized.
It costs a moment.
It costs a bit of attention.
Yes, I know—it’s a small decision. A few seconds of mental energy which probably wouldn’t tally up to much by the end of the day.
But I think that’s the part we tend to overlook, not just with jelly beans, but with a lot of things.
We’re pretty aware of what things cost financially, aren’t we? We compare prices, look for deals, decide whether something is “worth it.” But we’re much less precise when it comes to time.
And time is the thing we’re constantly spending.
Not in big dramatic chunks, usually, but in these small, almost forgettable moments. A lil bit of a doomscroll here. A conversation we didn’t really want to have there. And, most importantly, a task we said yes to out of habit more than intention.
Individually, none of it feels like a big deal, but that’s kind of the trap.
I’ve noticed that I’ve gotten better at filtering pretty aggressively as I’ve gotten older. Enter: armchair, grandpa Alvin. Okay, not in that kind of rigid or joyless way, but just in the sense that if I know something doesn’t feel suited to me, I’m less inclined to give it my time.
Not because it’s objectively unimportant. Just because it’s not important to me.
If the prize had been a trip somewhere, I would’ve guessed immediately. A thousand times. That’s something I care about. I’d happily spend a few moments on something for the chance to travel.
But jelly beans?nI don’t even really eat candy like that.
So that felt like enough of a reason.
Now, not everything has to be optimized or intentional or deeply meaningful. But I do think it’s worth noticing how easily we accept the idea that something is “free” just because it doesn’t cost money.
There are only so many minutes in a day. Only so many decisions you get to make before you’re tired. And once it’s spent, it’s spent.
So maybe that’s the quiet practice to take away from this. You don’t have to guard your time perfectly, but it is worthwhile being a little more aware of where it’s going.
Just asking, every now and then, is this something I actually want to spend my time on?
And being a little more honest about what it’s costing you.
P.S. I did realize that instead of guessing the jelly beans, I ended up writing a whole philosophical rant about it…which feels like a different, slightly more elaborate way of spending time on the jelly beans. Make of that what you will!