I’ve spent the past couple of weekends with only 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 exactly the healthiest way to spend one’s time, but I couldn’t help but feel like they were all I needed in that moment.
The problem with spending your weekends alone (in effect, doing you), however, is that you usually emerge five pounds heavier, a little less dignified and a little more socially inept.
Because what starts off with the intention of a little Netflix and chill R&R ends up turning into an inward spiral of self-doubt and mini existential crises. You spend just one 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 occurrence for me. I live my life straddling the fine line between loving myself just enough and indulging way too much — between treating myself to what I think 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 way to make 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 boy, 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 girl 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, giving 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 entails 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 further from where I started.
Swearing off dating is a process that involves using the “date scaries” as a valid excuse to avoid all contact with members of the opposite sex (note: the date scaries are not to be confused with butterflies. Butterflies make me excited for dates, while scaries make me anxious to the point where I psych myself out).
Swearing off dating also means spending my weekends crying into multiple tubs of ice cream.
I either exercise sporadically or make 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 arms forget how to use a dumbbell. It is what it is.
I either save up all of my money or go on a whimsical shopping spree.
To completely quell 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 getting 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 realize just how much I love both the sound of my voice and the lack of girl drama.
But what’s life without a little drama?
