Self care

I just realized, I don’t get the idea of self-care. I think it’s a myth, like unicorns or all the laundry being done.

I thought I’d try it, this elusive beast of self care. I took up yoga for a month. It took about a week to fully realize that yoga took up the time I used to spend doing the dishes. We all ate off paper plates, and that’s bad for the environment, and I’m pretty sure I read in some magazine the toxins in paper plates give you wrinkles. Or smallpox. Maybe it was hemorrhoids. I’m sure it was something. Collapoxarhoids. Yeah, I’m pretty sure that was it.

I don’t hate yoga like I hate running from killer clowns or trying on bathing suits under fluorescent lights. Actually, I kind of liked it. But I either have to get up at the crack of dawn (like 4:30 AM), or I have to do it in the evening. I’ve got three kids, man. My evening are booked… and the morning? Well, I think my bed can be considered self care, right? I mean, it’s warm and cozy and holy cow why do I have to get up at such an ungodly hour anyway? And anything at a more reasonable hour is reserved for the cardio I get as I frantically put together lunches for three kids while attempting to put a face on and get ready for work. I feel pretty successful, because most days I get mascara on both eyes and my shoes often match one another. #winning

See, there’s always something to be done. It’s a myth that we can have it all. I want a clean house, but it’s not going to clean itself. As much as I fantasize about a hunky house boy (that sounds juvenile, I don’t want a boy. I want a house man) who feeds me whatever floats my boat while I never gain weight and look effortlessly like Cindy Crawford as my self-cleaning house does all the dirty work, it’s not happening. I barely find time to blog, and in theory, that’s part of one of my jobs. I’m pretty sure most humans can relate.

Self-care. It’s a nice idea. Maybe I’ll try it someday. Maybe after I find that damn Leprechaun.