If you’re anything like me
(and you’re probably not because I am particularly
maladapted, in a terrible, boring sort of way) you do
anything and everything you can to coax yourself through
this tedious, ridiculous business of being upright. I try
my damnedest to pamper and please myself without guilt, or
a second thought, on a semi-regular basis. This is not
because I am A) wealthy B) shallow or C) egocentric (okay,
maybe a hair B and C, but it’s okay, my mom wrote me a
note). It’s because life (as we’ve noted before) is
one hard motherfucker of a thing to do and I deserve every
blessed treat, surprise, gift, break, side trip and
trinket that my heart desires if it keeps me from harming
myself or others.
I am the only one who knows my fancies and yens; who
better to provide me with them? I deeply, truly care about
my own well-being and am willing to do one measly,
infinitesimal sweet thing for myself each and every moment
of each and every day because it feels nice, because I
can, because it’s fun and funny. I am my own dearest
darling and I believe that I’m worthy, delightful and
cute enough to give in to every single time. It doesn’t
matter if it’s true; it keeps me sane and that’s
saying a lot. I desperately want you to believe the same
of yourself (mostly so you’ll stop flipping me off in
traffic and voting for religious freaks but also just
because you should).
Why is it so easy (for some of you) to berate
yourselves, overload yourselves, abuse, neglect, and
torment yourselves over the smallest of mistakes yet
tending to your own bodies and minds comes so hard? There
are so many things that you forget to do for yourself. You
always mean to do little things just for you—soft,
tender, fun things—but usually ignore the urge, or claim
to be too broke or too busy, or unconsciously move them
down the priority list until they languish undone
somewhere on the list between “buy new oven mitts” and
“colonic the dog.”
Knock it off, right now. It isn’t going to get any
easier up in here and honestly, sugar, if you don’t
start doting on yourself, who will? Sure, partners and
parents are good for a hand-holding here, a luxury there,
but it’s wearisome when they have to prop you up and pet
you every time you hit a snag. That’s what YOU’RE for
(or did you think you were only good for guilt,
self-loathing and chronic fatigue syndrome? Yeah, I know.
But that’s a lie and it bores the crap out of all of
us).
This right here is your permission, if that’s what it
takes. Permission to buy a glass-blowing class instead of
eight 12-packs of Costco underwear. Permission to sleep
late. Permission to nap properly, to get a weekly massage
instead of donating to PBS, to once in a while eat
something deep-fried instead of broiled in organic lemon
juice. Stop using stolen ballpoints that were out of ink a
month ago and cough up the $3.49 for a spectacular Uni-ball.
Throw away everything you own that’s broken,
uncomfortable or ugly; if this is everything you own, do
it anyway—nature abhors a vacuum and another toaster
will manifest shortly, I promise. You must drop everything
when you’re hungry and eat; eat what you’re hungry
for. Put bubbles in your bathwater, be late to work every
day because the long route is prettier and start saying
“no” to things that bore or hurt you. You’re hereby
ordered to stop eating shit because you think it will get
you something, somewhere or someone of value; it won’t.
This isn’t a Spartan contest wherein whomever has the
least has the most. Unless you’re some kind of ascetic,
suffering and self-flagellation are not a means to an end—they’re
what you do to yourself when there are no flies around to
pull the wings from. Are you afraid of becoming spoiled?
Personally, I wouldn’t leave a squalling infant in its
crib—“Stupid baby, suck it up.” And that’s all we
are, really—big hairy babies who deserve to be picked up
and cooed at, every single time. A need is a need—needing
comfort or rest, something cozy, goofy, delicious or
frivolous is still a need. It’s not spoiling; it’s
good parenting.
populargirls@tabletmag.com
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