I stared at the blank page, the glowing rectangle that, even if I closed my eyes, I could still see and thought about…

Nothing.

What’s up with this white space? You know, the gap between Christmas and New Year’s. That special holiday purgatory of stale Christmas cookies and brown butter bourbon and relatives who can’t get back to Buffalo. That ellipses point of time when no one really knows WTH is going on.

“Hey Siri,” I yelled at my phone across the room. “Uh-hmm?” she answered as if I’d just woken her from a disco nap. “Why does the time between Christmas and New Year’s feel so weird?” I asked.

“It’s six days,” she replied with the weary confidence of someone who knows the meaning of the universe.

“No, I mean, like, why? Why does it feel so weird right now?” I asked.

“Working on it,” she replied.

A few seconds later, she said, “Still working on it.”

And finally, “Something’s wrong. Check back again later.”

I had taken the week off from my freelance copywriting business for a reason. But what was the reason? Surely there were people out there doing things. I could hear them whizzing down Park Avenue, filled with purpose and intent — with goals. I imagined them striding confidently through their productive day: skis and snowboards slung over their shoulders; laptops in their backpacks; brown paper bags of wild-caught tuna, Siggis yogurt and organic black beans on the front seat of their Jeep Rubicons, on their way to feelings of accomplishment, motivation and Strava kudos.

I texted my buddy Matt.

Whatcha up to?

Duh! I’m back to work today.

But why.

Why work?! I have to finish all sorts of year-end payroll and tax tasks.

Oh.

I felt a surge of guilt. I thought about putting on my ski clothes but when I looked out the window, it was sleeting. I could go to the gym. I could clean out a closet. Go for a hike with my dog. Do some billing. Take my Christmas tree to the Recycling Center. Reflect back on the past year and finalize some meaningful resolutions. Call my mother.

I did none of these things.

I looked through my email inbox, the one place in my immediate vicinity where commerce appeared to continue without abatement.

Medium Daily Digest offered to explain the critical link between vibrators and bad sex. Caddis Readers promised me a moment of clarity — no therapist required. TripAdvisor urgently counseled me to start planning my next vacation. Ruggables begged me to respond to an all-important survey about a doormat I’d recently purchased. MyFitnessPlanner challenged me to jumpstart my health. My accountant responded to a question I’d sent the other day about a fourth-quarter tax payment: “Sorry, I’m off this week and can’t see what we sent you.”

I refilled my “The Adventure Begins” coffee cup and contemplated the bottle of brown butter bourbon.

What’s so wrong with nothing? As George Costanza said in my favorite episode of Seinfeld, “Everybody’s doing something; we’ll do nothing! It’s just like life! You eat, you read, you go shopping, you eat!”

I took a slice of leftover pizza from a Rubbermaid container in the fridge, flicked on the gas fireplace and laid on the couch. I was the blankest page I could be. A shook Etch-a-Sketch. My dog Riley laid in a ball at my feet and snored loudly.

I googled, “How to do nothing,” and found that an entire book and dozens of articles had been written on the subject.

“Do not be afraid to take a break…If you’re feeling stressed and overwhelmed, you don’t need to set aside hours and hours of nothingness,” WikiHow explained. “Do nothing for 15 minutes now and then, and you can seriously de-stress.”

Other suggestions included arranging a Zen rock garden, crocheting, and constructing a DIY sensory deprivation tank, which was basically taking a hot bath. There was even a completely un-ironic section on doing nothing at work, the No. 1 rule of which was “Practice looking busy.”

It appeared that even doing nothing required a moral sense of obligation to do something. I guess in the whole of human history, there has never been a supply-chain issue with excuses, apologies, justifications or guilt motivating us off our collective couches. “Hey Siri,” I called out from the corner of mine, the world’s ugliest and therefore, most comfortable sectional. “Mm-hmm,” she replied lazily.

“What is the meaning of life?” I asked. And I swear to God, it took her about two seconds to come up with this answer:

“Maybe it’s about noticing everything like you’re experiencing it for the first time. That helps the beautiful, strange and exciting things shine through in the dullest moments.”

I took a sip of my room-temp coffee and closed my eyes.

“Hey Siri,” I called out a moment later.

“Mm-hmm,” she replied, always at the ready for whatever random query some idle human might conjure up.

“Nothing.” I said.

“OK,” she replied cheerfully.