There's been a huge rise in recent decades in the utter total tosh myth that women who "juggle" work/family/house etc deserve pampering in their time off. Pampering perforce means a beautician's appointment, a spa day or a spray tan, or an expensive hair-do. Or holding a botox party. Or maybe an indulgently expensive piece of clothing. Or noo shoes, especially noo shoes.
Without at least one of these a week it seems the magazine-devouring plate-spinner who is The Modern Woman would capsize under the weight of what the word expects of her. Her husband or partner will find her burnt out husk in a little dry pile behind the bedroom door and the children will scratch their heads and wonder who will drive them to and fro now, and nervously ask one another how much a taxi costs. She will have imploded and be no use to man nor beast. The only thing that could reconstitute and re-inflate her might be a stately home hotel weekend with seaweed wraps and saunas. Nothing other or else will do!
How I ever got to the age I am without all this I have no idea. I have only ever had a couple of therapeutic massages when suffering from
chronic back pain. I've never had a facial, even self-administered. I colour my
own hair. I cut my own fringe. I tan my own skin, slowly and gradually, sitting in my own
garden. I fail to moisturise any part of body, even my face, most days. I paint my own toenails, and cut and file same, but only in the sandal season we laughably call summer here in the UK. My fingernails are rarely enamelled or adorned,
as I am busy in garden or house most days so what is the point as they
will be ruined within minutes? Cut and clean is enough.
But do like a decent
haircut every once in a while. If going through a short hair phase this
will be three times a year, if growing it, not at all. The pooch
receives more pampering. As does the car which is valeted more often
than I am, as some things I draw the line at and washing and hoovering a
mere vehicle is one of them.
Me Time? Do I ever have any? Yeah, LOADS. It's every time I lie down for a little stretch out and an idle think when I've just changed and made up the bed (a brief reward, but very appreciated after twenty minutes of what I call duvet-struggling). It's the moment each night when the dog and I curl up for a cuddle at the end of the day. It is any and every
snatched minute of a day when it is quiet enough to think my own
It's enough. I truly believe the real me resides between my ears, and in my lumpy but delightfully familiar old body, not on the surface where I am most visible to others. So long as I don't frighten the horses I'll DO, unless it's a Very Special Occasion, and if one has too many of those the risk is they cease to be special at all.