Happy Monday gang, I trust everyone is recovered from their post-fake-rapture-drinking-game hangovers. For Episcopalians, this translated to a shot every time your priest mentioned the rapture-that-wasn’t, two shots if they reference REM, U2, The Rolling Stones or The Beatles. Three if they manage to work in Kierkegaard, Skeeter Davis or that NYT article we all read, and drain the chalice if they do the entire spoken-word part from Blondie’s 1981 classic. There just aren’t enough Fab 5 Freddy reference in the Anglican Communion these days.
Anyhoodle, it’s Monday, my liver is very graciously not pressing charges so I guess I better dance like the immaculately shod primate I am and serve up some steaming hot content for my favorite invisible friends, so with that in mind, I am about to give you some exhaustively-researched, life-changing advice that will change your world forever. Ready? Here goes:
You should probably not treat yourself like crap.
I am pretty rotten at a lot of things: I can’t cook rice, I can’t wax my own eyebrows without making it look like I spend large portions of my time chasing Moose and Squirrel with a short dude in a trench coat and although I can get a man from zero to will-you-marry-me in record time, I can’t ever manage to frogmarch myself into Holy Matrimony…even when there was a house in Cannes at stake.
One thing I am good at is treating myself pretty well.
The way I think about it, there are only too many people ready and willing to treat you like garbage, especially if you’re different (and thus wrong/scary/less-than-human) so uh, they don’t really need my help.
And then there’s the majority of people out there who are basically good and decent –they vote and pay taxes and use their turn signals at least 15% of the time (percentage may be slightly lower in Texas)– but don’t really have the time or energy to devote to making me happy. I can only assume this is some sort of divine tribulation or egregious celestial oversight, so one tries to take the broad view and tries to carry on through this mortal veil of tears.
To me, not treating myself like crap means doing my best most of the time to put good things in and on me, and have good things come out of me.
For the rest of the week, I’m going to focus on the importance of self-care, from the type that involves fruits and veggies and doctor’s offices to the type that requires double A batteries and soundproofing (there may be an overlap for some of you, I don’t know your lives.)
So in parting, lest you think I’m about to get all Gwyneth Paltrow your collective lady lumps, I leave you with a photo of Saint Tallulah Bankhead whose last words were “Codeine…bourbon.” The old bird didn’t live long –she died at 66– but she sure as hell lived well.