I'm still not over Valentine's Day. I felt so much love and positivity coming my way from family and friends. No, I don't have a boo-thing, but that's never truly gotten my down on this day of love; because this day is about love in all its many shapes and forms. That's how we celebrated it growing up and that's how I celebrate it now. That's why I found myself smiling out of nowhere that night—because I was genuinely happy, and knowing I was happy made me even happier.
Those moments are sacred to me because I encounter fewer of them as I get older. You know how it is. Life sucker-punches you at the most inconvenient moments, and some one-two combos are harder to bounce back from than others. Your joy either slips away or it's flat-out stolen from you. It's so easy to get caught up in the business of Chicago and work and health and before I know it, I'm spending my free time (if I have any) on the couch, yet again, using Golden Girls reruns to cope with my depression.
That night, because I was happy with myself for once, I realized I rarely do anything for me. Like, just for me. I dove into this. I and realized I do, in fact, do small things for myself, but all of these things require some sort of sacrifice elsewhere. Sure I volunteer, but service can be taxing on the body and mind depending on what I'm doing. I get my nails done from time to time, but let's be real—I'm broke, so how often am I gonna go get a quality gel set? I also get my eyebrows threaded, but nothing about that is even remotely relaxing (y'all, it hurts like hell). Speaking of hurt, I hurt my wallet every time I decide to spoil myself at Akira or buy myself a nice meal; definitely buyer's remorse. Perhaps my most ritualistic act of self-service is buying myself Coldstone Creamery every Thursday night and eating it as I watch How To Get Away With Murder. The staff practically know my order by heart now (small cake batter ice cream with Oreo, chocolate fudge, and [extra] brownie). But ya know...money...every week.
Everything I do, even if it's for myself, drains another part of me—physically, mentally/emotionally, or financially. This can't be life. Life can't be—or at least shouldn't be—all about give and take every step of the way. Some things need to be just for you, selfish in all the right ways, strictly there to please or benefit your needs. How else are we supposed to tackle the things that require all of us if we can't even focus on ourselves when it counts? With this in mind, I began to think of ways to avoid enduring this same cycle of misery week after week.
My solution for now? Mandatory dance parties. Yup. Starting this weekend, I'm throwing my own weekly dance parties for one, and none of you are invited. I'm shutting the world out, cranking up my favorites from Britney to Bruno, and I'm gonna Milly Rock and twerk until I get tired. That's right; it's going down in my living room.
I'm very aware of how goofy this sounds, but I'm a goofy kind of girl, and at this point I'm willing to do anything to get myself out of this funk. It's for me and me alone, so why would I care what y'all think, anyway? Depression is a never-ending muddy ditch that is often too slippery to climb out of per my own effort. Throw in anxiety and you get a girl on the couch who's afraid of trying for fear of failing (or falling), yet again. At this point, anything's worth a shot for a chance at even momentary happiness. I'll still have my issues with depression and anxiety, but at least for that moment, the load won't be as heavy.
Maybe dance parties for one aren't your thing. Maybe you can afford to get your nails done every month or you have a budget just for buying new books to read. You might even be broke like me but choose home workouts and epsom salt baths instead (great choices that I plan on exploring more consistently, btw). Whatever it is, make sure it's worth it, and that you gain more than you lose. Asking yourself "what have you done for you lately" is more than just a twist on a timeless Janet bop. It's about realizing we deserve the same attention we give to our jobs, kids, education—all of that; that we are just as mandatory, just as critical as everything else we've got going on. Doing things for us is what's going to get us from point A to point B, after all. Until I get where I'm going and can afford to live fabulously and care for myself in this manner, I'll be attending my mandatory dance parties every weekend. And who knows? If the party's poppin, I might keep it around even after I've made it. I'm a pretty decent dancer, ya know.
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