I’ve expended the past couple of weekends with merely these things: Tina Fey, Ben& Jerry’s, a bottle of wine to the face and a blanket to snuggle with.
I know spending an entire weekend avoiding human contact isn’t precisely the healthiest style to spend one’s hour, but I couldn’t help but feel like they were all I needed in that moment.
The problem with spending your weekends alone( in fact, doing you ), however, is that you usually emerge five pounds heavier, a little less dignified and a bit more socially inept.
Because what starts off with the intent of a little Netflix and chill R& R ends up turning into an inward spiraling of self-doubt and mini existential crises. You spend merely the working day too long with yourself, doing what you thought you really wanted to, and end up asking yourself what the f* ck your life has become.
This is a common instance for me. I live my life straddling the fine line between loving myself just enough and indulging route too much — between treating myself to what I believe I need in a particular moment and then overdoing it until the treat gives me a stomach ache.
I take everything to the extreme. I indulge in cathartic activities to the point where I’m no longer doing them as acts of self-love; I’m doing them in excess, to the point where they become detrimental.
They say the best route to induce the most of life is to enjoy everything in moderation. But I take issue with a moderate lifestyle.
I love the high I get when I’m with the bad son, but I also love gorging on cake to the point where I can no longer move. The normal guy doesn’t cut it, and one slice of cake doesn’t either.
This way of thinking manifests itself in everything I do, from men to girlfriends to whether I’m going to work out or not. I’m addicted to the thrill of too much at once. I push myself to feel extremities and only extremities.
I need it all, and I need it all at the same time.
I either party too hard or hibernate in my daughter cave.
My girl cave is equipped with all the things I’ll ever need: a vibrator, bags of chocolate, Netflix and a body pillow. If I didn’t have to leave it, I probably never would.
That is, until I get bored with it and crave interactions with strangers.
Seeing as I don’t have an off button, I end up talking to strangers for too long, devoting them enough blackmail material about me that could last a lifetime, and I end up shooting myself in the foot.
I either date too much or swear off dating altogether.
Dating too much necessitates scheduling one different guy for every day of the week to distract myself from my very restless mind. Sometimes, this also means I forget guys’ names — too much of something isn’t always a good thing — and end up not much furtherfrom where I started.
Swearing off dating is a process that involves employing the date scaries as a valid excuse to avoid all contact with members of the opposite sexuality( note: the date scaries are not to be confused with butterflies. Butterflies stimulate me excited for dates, while scaries attain me anxious to the point where I psych myself out ).
Swearing off dating also means spending my weekends screaming into multiple tubs of ice cream.
I either workout sporadically or stimulate gym-centric wardrobe choices.
You can either find my lazy ass living in sweatpants and hoodies or going to work in head-to-toe black spandex because my day involves hitting up rowing class in the evening.
There is no such thing as exercising in moderation for me; I make it my life or drop the habit for so long that my limbs forget how to use a dumbbell. It is what it is.
I either save up all of my fund or go on a whimsical shopping spree.
To completely appease my impulses and plan for the future or to treat myself endlessly with Jimmy Choos and Chanel?
I’m either momentarily rich as f* ck, or get sh* t from my mom because she received statements regarding my overdrawn bank account.
I don’t buy one pair of shoes at a time because I need it. I buy a ton of pairs at a time because I want them.
I either take care of myself or talk about myself.
The battle over whether to talk about my problems or do everything I can to distract myself from them is never-ending.
Sundays with my therapist are what I look forward to the most — or should I be looking forward to drunken nights out with my girlfriends?
In my therapist’s office, I realise just how much I love both the audio of my voice and the absence of girl drama.
But what’s life without a little drama?