I kidnapped my bestie for our own good
I read recently that we’d all be better off if we treated our weekends like mini-vacations rather than time to catch up on laundry.
Seems simple. While I consider myself smarter than the average bear, I stink at self-care. And so do most of those most precious to me. My girlfriends are the type who will drop everything for everyone but themselves.
I love them for this. I can resemble this remark. My idea of “taking time for myself” typically looks like this: “Babe, I’m so sorry, I’m going to sneak out and snag a manicure. Be back in a flash.”
Now, please don’t get me wrong. My sweet husband is super supportive, adores me, honestly spoils me. But I feel freakishly guilty taking time for myself to do anything resembling something nice for myself. Like, oh, most women I know.
There’s nothing revelatory or new in this concept, just that after all these years I took a baby step into what I’d call self-indulgence. And dragged my bestie with me, the one who prioritizes everyone ahead of herself. Like the kid she just met who needs an internship. Or a colleague who’s always been mean to her but screwed something up and asks her to spend her whole weekend helping fix it.
WTH took us so long.
It looked like this: I was unnaturally crabby all Saturday morning. Enough so that by 8 a.m. I wasn’t a fan of myself. I had a litany of not-particularly fun tasks to do — nothing ridiculous, just normal boring crap.
In a simple and unprecedented move, instead of doing them, I googled “spa deals Phoenix.”
Texted a bestie with, “How about one of these?” She texted, “Oooh. Facial, please.”
Booked a facial for myself and the #incorriblyhelpful woman who prioritizes helping everyone ahead of herself. Called her and said, “I’m picking you up in 15 minutes. Bring a swimsuit. We might want the hot tub.”
She said she hadn’t showered.
Me: “I don’t care if you smell. I’ll be there in 14 minutes.”
Told the husband, “I’m kidnapping K for a spa day in 13 minutes.” And he said, “Have fun! You both deserve it.”
Seriously, a wise man.
So, the rest of my story goes like this: We ditched our phones. We got the fluffy robes and spa shoes. Drank the signature agave limeade. Left our “worries” in the Navajo basket by the door. Soaked in the hot tub. Had the facials. Sat in the shade by the pool and had a nice woman bring us salads and iced tea. Sampled all the lotions and potions. Inhaled the orange blossoms and admired the palm trees.
And when she said, “This is a perfect day. One where we look back and say, ‘Remember that time you called and said, I’m picking you up in 15 minutes for the spa.’” I said, “Let’s have it be, ‘Remember the first time I said that.’”
We soaked in being grateful for being there, that we are privileged to live lives that we can, that we got to be there together. And promised it wasn’t the last time.
So when I spent the next day grading a pile of assignments, I did it by my pool, appreciating the clear-skied 80-degree weather, the abundant cactus blossoms, the air fragrant of citrus, with a heart full of gratitude.