I grew up in a house where you had to get off the sofa to change the channel. Where music came from a record player with a finicky needle. Where if you wanted to talk to someone, you walked to their room or you shouted up the stairs.
We called it life. Now they call it friction maxxing.
Here’s what I think. Somewhere along the way, we made everything too easy. Smart speakers, one click buying, lights that turn on before you even enter a room. It sounds great on paper. But my God, does it feel like nothing.
I miss the tiny struggles. The ones that made you slow down. The ones that made a Friday night feel like a Friday night.
So I’ve started putting a little hassle back into my home. Not because I’m trying to be difficult. Because I want to feel something again.
The record player
My dad had a dusty crate of vinyl under the stairs. Led Zeppelin. Aretha Franklin. Some weird folk thing my mum loved. On a rainy Saturday, he’d pull out a record, blow the dust off, and place the needle so carefully you’d think he was defusing a bomb.
That crackle before the music started. That’s the good stuff.
I ditched the smart speaker in my living room. Bought a secondhand turntable for forty quid. Now when I want music, I have to choose. I have to flip through sleeves. I have to commit. It takes two minutes instead of two seconds. And I listen differently. Whole albums. No skipping. Just me and that warm crackle.
The phone basket
My nan kept her phone on a little table in the hallway. A cord stretched across the floor. If it rang, she had to get up and walk to it. No carrying it room to room. No scrolling in bed.
I do the same now. A basket by the front door. The phone lives there when I’m home. No charger in the bedroom. No screen next to my pillow.
You want to check Instagram? Fine. But you have to get up. You have to walk to the hallway. And nine times out of ten, you realise you didn’t need to look anyway.
The remote in the drawer
Remember fighting with your siblings for the remote? Remember actually knowing what channel you were on because you had to press the number buttons?
My remote lives in a drawer now. Not lost. Just hidden. If I want to watch something, I get up. I open the drawer. I point it at the TV like it’s 1998. And when the show ends, I get up again to turn it off.
That little walk changes everything. No mindless flipping. No falling asleep to autoplay. Just a show, then silence.
The waiting rule
This one’s for buying furniture. My mum never ordered anything online. She’d see a sofa in a catalogue, drive to the shop, sit on it for twenty minutes, then go home and think about it for a week.
I do the same thing now but with painters tape. I tape the outline of a new chair or a table right on my floor. Then I live with that shape for seven days. Walk around it. Put things next to it. See how the light hits.
It’s boring. It’s slow. And it’s saved me from three terrible purchases in the last year alone.
Why it matters
Here’s the truth. We didn’t lose friction by accident. Companies sold us convenience because convenience sells. But convenience without texture is just emptiness.
Friction maxxing isn’t about pretending the internet doesn’t exist. It’s about choosing which parts of life you want to actually feel. The crackle of a record. The walk to the hallway. The weight of a real book.
My house asks a little more of me now. And I’m grateful for it.
Give it a try. One small hassle. See if it doesn’t make your Friday night feel like a Friday night again