HOLY HELL! SELF-CARE GONE WILD

Yesterday morning I was standing in my kitchen trying to remember if I'd taken my probiotics.

Or was it my enzymes?

I'd taken the thyroid pill.

Pretty sure.

Collagen and creatine sat on the counter, waiting to be mixed into something.

My giant water bottle was glaring at me.

And I was already behind on my protein.

It was 8:12 a.m.

Apparently, being healthy is my full-time job now.

Every day there is a list of things I am supposed to do in the name of health, longevity and keeping all my parts from sliding toward the floor.

Weight train three times a week.

Cardio three or four.

Stretch.

Pelvic floor exercises.

Which I routinely forget because, unlike biceps, you can't exactly catch sight of your pelvic floor in the mirror and think:

Shit. Look at those guns.

Then there are the supplements.

Probiotics.

Enzymes.

Thyroid medication.

Collagen.

Creatine.

Fiber.

Magnesium.

B's.

D's.

And enough alphabet soup to make me wonder.

And apparently I'm supposed to eat protein before caffeine.

I'm sorry.

No.

The thought of gnawing on a lamb chop before I've had my morning latte feels criminal.

Some things simply aren't worth living longer for.

Then we get to food.

One hundred-plus grams of protein every day.

Vegetables with every meal.

Fiber.

Whole foods.

Minimal sugar.

And water.

Water.

More water.

I spend half my life trying to drink enough water and the other half looking for a bathroom because I drank enough water.

And here's where the fitness gurus lose me.

They'll casually say:

“Meal prep on Sunday!”

Oh, good.

I'll just spend six hours weighing chicken breasts into little glass containers so I can enjoy the exact same lunch until Thursday, when I start questioning whether longevity is really worth it.

I've also heard the secret is eating pretty much the same thing every day because it removes the decision-making.

Have these people never tasted food?

I LIKE FOOD.

Restaurants.

Sauces.

Spices.

Bread.

Ohhhhh, especially bread.

I don't want to open my refrigerator and see seven identical containers of ground turkey and broccoli lined up like inmates awaiting sentencing.

I want to open it and experience possibility.

So apparently I'm screwed.

ANYWAYYYYY—

We're nowhere near finished taking care of ourselves.

There's red-light therapy.

And a red-light mask for my face.

And because my hair decided chemotherapy was the perfect opportunity to abandon ship, I'm using special oils, supplements, and—yes—more red light in hopes of convincing it to come home.

Then there's skincare.

Morning AND night.

Cleanse.

Exfoliate.

Serum.

Retinol.

Moisturizer.

Sunscreen.

Repeat.

Although obviously don't repeat the retinol in the morning because apparently I'd burst into flames the second I walked outside.

Body care is an entirely separate division of Barbara Maintenance, LLC.

Because after a certain age, skin starts heading south like a Canadian in January.

So there are lotions.

Oils.

Castor oil.

Potions.

Devices.

Things you rub.

Things you roll.

Things you shine lights on.

On to Hair care.

Separate department.

I have extensions, so I only wash my hair twice a week.

But I need a special brush.

Special products.

Special oils.

And apparently I have to brush it like I'm restoring an endangered textile at the Smithsonian or I'll damage the extensions AND the three hairs on tope of my head might disappear.

Nails are thankfully outsourced.

I go somewhere for those.

At this point, outsourcing my toenails feels like one of the smartest business decisions I've ever made.

Then night arrives.

Finally.

Time to relax.

HAHAHAHAHAHA.

Cleanse.

Serums.

Moisturizer.

Body stuff.

Magnesium.

Progesterone.

Estradiol gel.

Which brings us to the one self-care department I've conveniently managed to avoid entirely.

My lady parts.

Oh, she didn't.

Oh, she did.

Radiation does some pretty shitty things to your lady parts.

It causes the tissue to narrow and tighten.

So congratulations to me.

I'm a virgin again. 🙏

Unfortunately, there was no prom, corsage or awkward 17-year-old boy involved.

And apparently if I'd like my vagina to rejoin adult society, I'm supposed to use vaginal dilators.

(No, Tom. I said dilators, not vibrators. Different department.)

They come in progressively larger sizes, which is adorable.

Like Russian nesting dolls, except every time you open one, you get a little more concerned.

I haven't started using them yet.

The dilators, Tom. Keep up.

Not because I'm scared.

Okay.

Maybe a little.

But mostly because WHERE AM I SUPPOSED TO FIT VAJAYJAY REHABILITATION INTO THIS SCHEDULE?

Tuesday?

Between cardio and collagen?

Perhaps I can red-light my face while stretching, drink my fiber through a straw and rehabilitate my GF at the same time.

Look at me.

Finding efficiencies.

And that's when it occurred to me:

Somewhere in my quest to take better care of myself, I've accidentally turned self-care into another job.

And worse—

another job I can fail at.

Because I never get all of it done.

If I weight train, I forget to stretch.

If I hit my protein, I don't drink enough water.

If I remember the supplements, I forget the red light.

If I do the entire nighttime skincare routine, I've stayed up an extra 30 minutes doing it and now I've failed at sleep.

THERE IS NO WINNING AT WELLNESS.

And maybe that's where all this advice gets a little screwed up.

Because most of us aren't professional wellness people.

We have lives.

Jobs.

Families.

Friends.

Dogs.

Books.

Trips.

Bread to eat.

Things we actually enjoy doing.

Taking care of our bodies is supposed to help us live those lives.

It isn't supposed to become our lives.

I'm still figuring out what that looks like for me.

Especially after spending a good chunk of this year living in a recliner.

I want to be strong again.

I want my body to heal.

I want muscle and sleep and healthy skin and hopefully a few more hairs on my head.

But I also want pasta.

And wine.

And a morning latte before anyone asks me to chew meat.

Maybe taking care of myself doesn't mean doing every damn thing I'm “supposed” to do every single day.

Maybe it means doing enough of the important things, most of the time, and not turning my entire existence into one giant fucking checklist.

I'm pretty sure the experts would agree that stressing about wellness is not a good thing.