I’m sitting in the laundromat,
waiting for my clothes to dry—all two weeks’ worth of shirts, pants, socks, and underwear that have collected like dead weight in the corner of my room.I’m sitting in the laundromat, thinking of an old pair of boots I’m going to have to give away. Despite having worn them regularly for the past five years, I suddenly can’t bear the idea of walking in them any longer.
I’m sitting in the laundromat, and I feel like crying because I’m thinking of this poem by Derek Walcott:
Love After Love
The time will come
when, with elation
you will greet yourself arriving
at your own door, in your own mirror
and each will smile at the other's welcome,
and say, sit here. Eat.
You will love again the stranger who was your self.
Give wine. Give bread. Give back your heart
to itself, to the stranger who has loved you
all your life, whom you ignored
for another, who knows you by heart.
Take down the love letters from the bookshelf,
the photographs, the desperate notes,
peel your own image from the mirror.
Sit. Feast on your life.
I don’t really want to tell you about what’s been going on in my life recently—not because I fear you won’t understand, but because I wouldn’t want your food to get cold, not in this economy. People’s food always gets cold the second you start telling them some terrible news. They insist on pushing away their plates so they can lean in closer, giving you that slow nod of sympathy and furrowing their brow in that way, as if to say, “I don’t want you to think I’m an asshole, so I’m going to make it extremely obvious that I’m listening to you right now.” So instead, I’ll tell you about all of the little ways I’ve been trying to get along lately:
I’ve found that taking care of yourself can look like closing your eyes and holding your face with your own hands just long enough for the coolness of your palms to resemble that of your mother’s.
It can look like stepping aside on a busy sidewalk to Google “best chocolate chip cookie near me,” and then proceeding to eat said cookie on a park bench while listening to the complete Gilmore Girls soundtrack.
It can look like buying a bag of frozen spinach after realizing you haven’t eaten a vegetable in ages. And while spinach isn’t your favorite, you know you’re more likely to toss the wilted leaves into a bowl of pasta than to defrost a hunk of broccoli with every other meal.
It can look like taking the train an hour and a half uptown in an attempt to walk the length of Manhattan with a group of girls you just met, only to get caught in the rain and decide to call it quits at 110th St. to avoid getting sick.
It can look like calling your best friend and asking her to tell you that everything is going to be okay—that you won’t die just because you’re afraid of what might come of finally choosing yourself this time.
Taking care of yourself looks like throwing two weeks’ worth of laundry over your shoulder and going to the laundromat because you deserve clean clothes.
And you deserve to be happy.