My brother is defiant like this, too, which suggests either a genetic predisposition to Ultimate Cheeseburgers or a rebellion against the bean sprouts and barley of our food co-op childhood. Kids often dive into the indulgences their parents place off-limits: television, sugar, sex. And I became an adult who actually enjoyed carpet bombing her gut with processed meats. “The next time you eat a fast-food burger, I want you to really think about it,” a friend once said. So I did. And I thought: This is great!
Of course, I had the added pressure of growing up female in the diet culture of the ’80s. After the age of 12, food stopped being sustenance and turned into guilt, sin, reward, penance, entertainment, love. Cramming food into my mouth brought a rush of rebellion, but I was never sure who I was fighting. My mother? The advertising industry? Jane Fonda? (Poor Jane Fonda. She was only trying to help.) Whoever I intended to punish with that routine, the only one who got hurt in the end was me.
Our bodies carry the evidence of our neglect. By the time I stopped drinking, I was nearly 50 pounds overweight. I had ulcers that felt like the lit end of a cigarette held up to my stomach lining. I had a mysterious rash splashed over my arms and legs. I had two twisted knees that cried out when I descended stairs, a painful reminder I literally could not support my own weight.
I never thought of myself as neglectful. I’d been a single woman living in New York City, after all. I took care of myself all the time. I opened tightly sealed jars by myself, banging a spoon against the metal until it relented, and I installed shelves in my kitchen, using a power drill and torpedo level to hang them properly. I couldn’t fob off the finances to my spreadsheet-oriented husband. My wife never did the laundry. (Actually, the women at the drop-off dry cleaner did my laundry, and I thank them.) I carried the responsibility of rent and work demands on my own tensed shoulders, and the way I eased those knots was to reward myself with a nice bottle of wine at the end of a long day. Maybe a six-pack as well. This was taking care of myself: a conscious decision not to shame myself for my own roaring appetites.
Go to any spa, and you’ll see the same philosophy at play. It’s time to take care of you finally—here’s a glass of champagne. When it comes to selling the luxury experience, alcohol is more central than warm hand towels and tinkling water sculptures. They serve booze at beauty salons, high-end stores, resorts, upscale hotels. What’s the most famous perk of flying first class? Free drinks, of course. Alcohol is the ultimate in pampering.
But “pampering myself” all the time led to a certain sloth. I let cat food tins languish in corners, and I let bills go unpaid. In Brooklyn, I was sleeping with a guy who used to come over at 3 am, and in between tokes on his one-hitter one night, he said, “Baby, you need a new couch.” I looked closer and was startled by what I saw: My velvety red futon had become filthy with splotches of soy sauce and red wine. There was a strange crust on one cushion that might have been cheese. It’s not a good sign when your stoned fuck buddy is giving you decorating tips.
People who don’t take care of themselves will also struggle to take care of others. One night, I came home so blind drunk I left the front door flapping open, and at some point, my cat walked out into the night right before my eyes. My cat. The one I was beyond paranoid about keeping indoors. The one I loved with such ferocity I thought I might go insane if anything happened to him. The next morning, I was in a panic trying to find him, only to open the front door and see him sitting on the stoop, looking up like: Where have you been?
I couldn’t believe I let that happen. But addiction siphons so much attention, and the most precious treasures will get tossed in the backseat: children, husbands, basic hygiene. I heard a guy once complain about how much he wet the bed when he was drunk. But he didn’t stop drinking. He got waterproof sheets.
And I get it. When you are alone and drinking every night till you pass out, who really cares?
I asked myself that often. Who really cares? I’d given up many things by the end. Hanging my clothes. Making the bed. Shaving my legs. Zippers or clothing with structure of any kind. I threw towels over spills until the towels began to seem like rugs.
And I told myself this was OK, because our society was beyond warped in its expectations of women, who were tsunamied by messages of self-improvement, from teeth whiteners to self-tanners. I was exhausted by the switchbacks of fashion, in which everyone was straightening their hair one year and embracing their natural curls the next. I wanted to kick the whole world in the nuts and live the rest of my years in sweatpants that smelled vaguely like salami, because who really cares?
It took a while for me to realize: I cared. I didn’t need to do these things because it pleased men, or because it was what I was “supposed” to do, or because my mother clipped something out for me from O magazine. I should take care of myself because it made me happy. Remarkably, impossibly—it felt good.