The curse of Woman is not the monstruating nightmare that happens monthly. It is guilt, the rampant guilt stomping around our brains, yelling at us if we dare to put ourselves first, that keeps many of us from self-indulgent activities.
The lure of divine chocolate dancing on our tongues is met with internal scorn of a caloric measure. A hot bubble bath ten minutes past the usual length leads to curious knocking on the door and inquiries of your possible death by bubbles. Sleeping in on a Saturday? Tsk tsk. Aren’t we meant to be frying up bacon and eggs for the others in our home? Heaven forbid we put ourselves first, and though we try, many of us are met with our own inner judgement.
It’s a true melting pot of cause and effect.
I admit I am my own worst enemy. When I sit to write, I fret about the laundry. When I sit to read, I worry what my husband will say if he sees me idle and not working around the home.
Try and let that guilt go I say to myself! But it isn’t that easy. I have children, a part time job, a busy husband, a house to upkeep, food to cook, gardens to weed, my body to exercise. And there is nothing wrong with my “duties” in my life. But I feel sapped and drained if I don’t feed my soul with my own wanton desires of indulgences.
And so today I dedicated my day to ME. I *gasp* had a bath and then went back to bed after my kids and husband left for the day. At first I felt squirmy and out of sorts, the guilt rising in me about the endless multitudes of things I could be doing. But the lure of my book and my (sorry) epic cramps begged me to give in. I did. I fought the guilt and gave in to my desire to do nothing.
And it felt so damn good.