Asian pear, strawberry, and peanut butter sandwich and self-care

I've been thinking about how, in the face of some intense challenges these past five years WHAM WHAM WHAM, I have managed to keep my wits about me.

Is it because I'm a superior human being? Is it because I have anything recognizable as a good habit? Is it because I take a five-minute walk every half hour to stave off death, the latest fear fad suggested by "research"? (Do I keep my wits about me?)

None of the above!

So, I've been thinking about why and how I'm still in relatively good shape mentally and physically (blood pressure: 116/77!) – in addition to all the privileges that come with my race, socioeconomic status, access to education, etcetera etcetera, which are, let’s be real, the leading factors.

"Self-care" is my bugaboo, because, as I scream in my book, it's a gaslighting concept from a country that in no way supports moms/nonbinary parents/transgender dads, especially those of us "of color," telling us that "self-care" is not only within our reach but also our responsibility.

"Take care of myself"? Why don't you give me equal pay already, also universal child care, paid family leave, equal access to all opportunities at all times, no more living below the poverty line and let's throw out rape and sexual harassment and diet culture and then we can talk about me taking care of myself.

This is what magazines and the internet tell us over and over to do for "self-care." It's always some variety of this nonsense:

Take walks! Get outside!
Eat well! Eat fucking whole grains!
Get enough sleep!
Exercise/stretch!
Be with people!
Take deep breaths/meditate!

YES. YES I KNOW.

Sometimes I do these things they're GREAT DUH OMG DUHHHHHH. But also pandemic hangover so exercising and being with people hard, plus a kid so cooking and anything that requires private time and planning hard. Also, not doing the above things, since they're listed everywhere EVERYWHERE ALL THE TIME, can make me feel that if I don't feel great all the time, it's my fault because I'm not trying hard enough when it's NOT MY FAULT. IT'S NOT.

So, this is the Jenny True Self-Care List. These are the things I do to take care of myself on a regular basis because they work:

Drink. Drink every day. Mostly wine. If it feels like you've been drinking too much lately, you can drink a little less, but only if you feel like it. If you fail to drink less, when you wake up in the morning say, Huh. OH WELL.
Only text-message with people who make you laugh or who think you're great and say so.
Pick up your cat who hates to be picked up and hold him tight as he stares, wide-eyed, past your left shoulder, alert for the second your grip relaxes, and cover his furry head with kisses until he emits a low growl. Snuggle him tight. Tighter.
Haunt the local Goodwill and estate sales for cheap things you don't need but that constantly refresh your living space. Don't ask permission from anyone you live with, and especially not SJ, before nailing new pictures to your walls. Come home with bags of used clothing, shoes, baskets and home items and dress up in the mirror and do a brown-chicken-brown-cow "Notice anything different about me?" fashion show for your family, then rearrange your desk. Cycle out bags of stuff you don't want anymore to the Goodwill drop-off on Wisconsin Street and don't stress about any of it because it's cheap AF.
Reading a book you're not into? STOP READING THAT FUCKING BOOK. Does "everyone" else like it? Are you "supposed" to read it? Is it "good"? STOP READING THAT FUCKING BOOK. Did you stop reading the last book so you should really try to finish this one? STOP READING THAT FUCKING BOOK.
Are your pants uncomfortable because your body is changing and also your habits changed because of the pandemic and it's too hard to change them all back at this point? Do you constantly have to unbutton your pants when you're sitting? BUY PANTS THAT FIT. LOTS OF THEM, IN DIFFERENT STYLES. PANTS THAT FIT ARE WHAT CREDIT CARD DEBT IS FOR.
Are you having a panic attack? Take part of a Klonopin and call in sick. You really, actually don't have to suck it up if you're having a panic attack. Also, tell people you had a panic attack, because it's NOT YOUR FAULT YOU HAD A PANIC ATTACK. Some people slip on ice and feel perfectly fine telling everyone about it. Same with a panic attack. That shit happened TO YOU and is your body's legitimate response to your ceiling falling in, leaving you in what may or may not be financial freefall it's hard to tell when you're hyperventilating and kind of sobbing. That's your body saying TAKE A KLONOPIN AND CALL IN SICK.
Sleep in the big bed with your 5-year-old pretty much every night still, because it feels amazing and you love it so goddamn much and you both want to sleep together anyway and it's hard to tell what the problem is even though every single U.S. parenting book talks about U.S. kids being in their own U.S beds, and your partner is perfectly happy sleeping in your kid's bed or on the couch and in fact prefers it because he sleeps better alone ASK HIM.
Have two breakfasts. Eat breakfast at home and then go to the bakery across the street from your kid's school and get muffins and lattes you "don't need" and "aren't hungry for" but actually NEED and ARE HUNGRY FOR LIFE IS SHORT EAT THE FUCKING MUFFINS.
Volunteer/Do nice things WITH BOUNDARIES. Remember, volunteering is about YOU, NOT THEM. Don't know how to arrange a fundraiser and have no interest in learning? Say no! Don't really want to serve and clear a staff meal? Say no! Someone approaches you directly to do something they really need, like give a school tour during the day when you have work and you could get a few hours off and not tell anyone and then run back after, but that would be a pain? Say no! BUT: Have laundry in your house and you're doing tons of laundry anyway and the school needs tons of laundry done because clothing donations for unhoused students got left in the rain? OOH OOH ME THAT'S ME. Staff loves green beans and it takes you literally 10 minutes to parboil 2 lbs. of green beans and throw some olive oil and salt on that? ALL OVER IT. Do the stuff you can build into your routine BUT NO MORE. Have a trunk full of socks, granola bars, water bottles, wipes, feminine products, and leftover dentist things and stop every time you can interact with an unhoused person but not when you can't. Buy the packages of sausage and cheese for the guy who just got kicked out of Grocery Outlet for trying to steal them, because the security guard distractedly put them right in front of you as you were checking out LIKE A TEST FROM GOD. Buy the bag lady green tea and a pastry when it's your turn in the bakery because sometimes she shows up when you're in line and sometimes it's someone else's turn. Bring snacks for the classroom because hello there's a corner store with fresh produce on the same block as the school and it's just not that hard and plus you can afford it so you're up. Always, always insist on paying WHEN IT'S NOT THAT MUCH. Anything else? SAY NO AND LET IT GO.
Virtue-signal about your volunteering. Why do things when no one's watching?
If one of the only perks of being in your office is free grapefruit seltzer, drink three grapefruit seltzers every time you're in the office. Every. Time. And ask facilities to turn your desk to face the windows instead of the bank of televisions hanging from the ceiling so you don't have to watch Tucker Carlson's fucking face when you're TRYING TO WORK OVER HERE JESUS GOD.

My 13-year-old stepdaughter has a reemergent pattern of insomnia, which got me thinking about what I used to do for self-care when I was her age and what I, unsuccessfully, tried to talk her into doing a few nights ago: listening to "Waiting for the Night" on Depeche Mode's Violator, which at that time I listened to on my red-and-black boombox in the dark of my room in rural Quincy, Illinois. Which, in 1991, meant leaning out of my bunk bed to the boombox where it was plugged into the wall with the cord stretched as close as possible across the blue-and-white shag carpet, clunking the play button, leaning back in my bed, and listening for all six minutes, then sitting up, clunk-rewinding, clunk-stop nope not far enough, clunk-rewind nope not far enough, clunk-rewind nope not far enough, clunk close enough, then listening to it again. And again. And again, at least three times, and then I would give up because who can go on like that all night and I guess I went to sleep.

I also picked some serious zits in that bed including one that was so satisfying I STILL REMEMBER IT and once I hid in my bed in a homecoming dress, pretending to be asleep when my mom knocked on the door because I had hidden a very tall boy in my closet, which my parents figured out once they saw his CAR PARKED IN THE DRIVEWAY. Then my dad knocked on the door and it was all over.