There are about four piles of untouched work sitting in various places in my apartment, eight or so long articles hanging around in the “Read me!” bookmark on my laptop, and countless stalled projects vying for space inside my head, but I’m in my kitchen, scrubbing my pots with baking soda and steel wool. Removing tarnish from the outside of my pots certainly isn’t high on my to-do list, but it somehow feels like a small step toward reclaiming my free time from the leaky overflow of office work.
Scrub-athon as instant vacation? Sounds like the good-old exfoliating spa treatment/tall glass of cucumber water combo. Which is exactly where I’m headed with this. Somehow we (and by “we” I mean a certain urban, work-centric population) have come to think of the massage, the overpriced cocktail, the shopping spree, as our reward for spending the bulk of our time at work. To put it plainly: My notion of taking care of myself has often involved springing for things I can’t afford. The phrase “I deserve it” has been known to run through my head.
But what is it exactly I think I deserve? I guess it’s been my belief (and I don’t think I’m alone), that at the end of the workday, it’s my god-given right to phone in the delivery order, prop my feet up, and take the proverbial load off. In other words, the notion of coming home and doing more “work” has not sat well with me.
As a side-effect of working on BE THRIFTY, though, over the past year I’ve been trying on another version of self-care. Saying no to that ten dollar cocktail, which I totally deserve, when I’m out with my girlfriends. Taking pleasure in filling my refrigerator with foods I’ve cooked or will cook myself, and in restoring my shabby apartment to a state of livability.
The mantra that runs through my head as I scrub isn’t necessarily “Thrift on, soldier,” but something closer to “Go ahead: You deserve it.”
It feels pretty good. And—necessity being the mother of invention—it’s even led to the creation of a couple of highly delicious (and totally proprietary!) cocktails. Thirsty? Check back in next week.
4 Comments
Jo Giese
June 23, 2010 at 3:41 pmNice.
I used to iron and starch linens when I needed some quiet, meditative time.
Then one day my husband-to-be saw me ironing, and he said, “You’re too talented to waste your time ironing.”
I was flattered that was his perception of me. But now I know he was also missing the boat.
I never ironed since, and some times I missed it: the hot iron, the steam, the satisfaction of pretty linens getting all flat and perfect. That husband has been dead for 6 years. I guess I could start ironing again. But I’ve lost the need to meditate in that way.
Savannah
June 23, 2010 at 4:00 pmHi Jo!
I actually know several people who love ironing. In fact, another book I worked on, Flanagan’s Smart Home, completely rhapsodized about it: http://www.workman.com/products/9780761144601/.
If you decide to start again, this is the machine Barbara Flanagan, the author, recommends: http://www.oliso.com/iron-2.aspx. (Not sure the website captures the glory; Barbara’s description is really poetic!)
Susan Chehak
June 28, 2010 at 10:15 amOh, I LOVE to iron! My kitchen in California has an ironing board built in (c. 1926), just open the cupboard and down it comes. With the back door open and the canyon breezes blowing, damp shirts in a wicker basket, music playing, sleeping dog, dozing cat… so easy to get lost in the daydream this way.
savannah
June 28, 2010 at 2:50 pmI love those built-in irons. More importantly, please send some of those canyon breezes to New York!