Friday, April 21, 2017

Today--and Only Today!--I Shall Embrace Self Care by Walking up the Stairs at Work Instead of Using the Elevator

Have you heard of “self-care?” No? Well let me to drop some science on you.

ICYMI, self-care is like, a supes big deal right now. Technically, "self-care” is old AF, having started back in the polyester plaid bell-bottom/wood-paneled station wagon olden times as a way to drive down health care costs by promoting the consumption of grapefruits and the lifting of dumbbells with Jane Fonda.

Today, self-care is to the lifestyle industrial complex what the Macarena was to your aunts dancing at a bar mitvah in the early 90s. Self-care is the new me-time, but it’s more “Namaste and juice cleanse” than “mani-pedi and Unicorn Frappucino to cure a hangover in Vegas,” is the sense I am getting from the Googles.

Additionally, ever since America shot itself in the face by electing a demented, jowly Creamsicle with a boner for bombin' to the most powerful job on earth, self-care has become increasingly important for women, minorities, LGBTQ peeps, and other leftist libtard snowflakes who can no longer count (if they ever could) on a $75 pap smear and a safe space from Nazis.

That’s why I took a break from dreaming up plots for a new genre of Trump-demise erotic fan fic by walking up the six flights of stairs in my office today, and only today. 


I want to say that I will do this on Monday, but that would be an aspiration at best and an empty, bald-faced lie at worst. I want to say I will be like this one dude who works down the hall from me and does this EVERY DAY, and somehow is not out of breath and has a legit smile on his face every time he comes out of the stairwell and seems to always be in a really good mood.

But I will not be like that one dude, and it's pointless to pretend otherwise. 

Today I parked in the garage and walked up many stairs, to the street level, and then I walked up six flights of stairs and back down again. I did not count the number of stairs this was, and I don't have a special wrist monitor to tell me. But I'm confident that this was a yoooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooge accomplishment in self-care. 

Just look at the poster in the stairwell. It’s like THEY KNOW ME. The Mysterious Big Brother who wants me to Self-Care--which I'll have you know is NOT just a euphemism for masturbation after all--is telling me to "be invigorated," and I AM!

At each floor, there is one of these posters that speaks fitspiration to the Stair-Walkers, which sounds like a Stephen King novel but is actually what we call ourselves. 

See what I did there? I just "actually'd" you about walking up stairs, which is actually the most actually to ever actually, since I actually just started this "journey" today. (Pro tip: You can't do self-care unless you are on a "journey"). I say “we” like I am part of a “community” or a “movement” of “self-care,” which I am not. I did, however, bring a 12 ounce iced almond milk latte with an extra shot from the drive-through coffee stand along for the first literal and figurative steps on my journey toward self-care.

So that’s something, actually.

This might sound trite, but we are not actually promised tomorrow. And I am certainly not promising myself that I will ever walk up this staircase again, much less tomorrow. But for today, at least, I consider myself duly cared for.

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