I’m pretty big on the whole self-love movement. I’m not talking about masturbation here (which is great, I’m just not talking about it right now. Give me 5 minutes), but taking time to recognise the things about yourself and appreciating them. Doing things for yourself because you can, because you want to make yourself happy as much as you enjoy providing that service for the ones you love. Because you should be one of the people you love.
Or maybe I’m just making excuses for hedonism. That’s grand too.
I’m more about finding little things that add a spark to your day, or recognising small successes. I just put on pyjamas straight out of the dryer. Static electricity means my top-hatted, cigar smoking pooch PJs are clinging all the way from my angles to my waist. Everything below my waist feels snuggly and warm. That to me is self-love of sorts.
I just accidentally spilt a dollop of high quality boutique moonshine on my keyboard. Self-love means I’ll resort to silver-lining thinking instead of beating myself up over it. You know what? That’s some pretty potent bootleg keyboard cleaner. My keyboard has been a faithful companion to many a drunken writing night. Maybe it deserves a tipple too.
Self-love. I make it to work 5 days a week. I get to the gym 3 days a week. My fridge is stocked mostly with fresh fruit and veggies and the combination of freezer, pantry and spices means I’ve got no reason to go hungry. I’m doing ok. That’s a success in itself. Some people aren’t so fortunate. Some people have barriers inhibiting them from engaging in a steady routine. I’ve gotta acknowledge that while still celebrating that in terms of domestic mediocrity, I’m killing it. My anxieties and neuroticisms, while valid in my own head, aren’t crippling. There’s some self-love.
Self-love to me means laughing at my own jokes, even if nobody else does. At least I “get” me sometimes. Many people don’t. There’s a show that screens called Stalker. It doesn’t rate terribly well. We were conversing at work and I mentioned that it sounded like a dumb show. My boss queried if I knew what it was. I explained that in my own mind, Stalker was a play on the age old adage of “it takes a thief…”. She replied that I obviously hadn’t seen it. For the rest of the afternoon I couldn’t get over how ludicrous and junky my premise was.
Hardboiled Police Chief: We’ve got a serious epidemic here. Violent stalking is hitting an all-time high. We need to crack down non this stat!
Young Rookie: I’ve got a radical premise that you’ll consider, even though it’s outlandish, because I’ve got a great jawline.
Hardboiled Police Chief: You’re on thin ice here Young Rookie.
Young Rookie: You’re not gonna like it and it’s gonna be a source of continual contention between us, but it’s so radical you can’t avoid it. Have I said radical enough to make it a thing yet?
Hardboiled Police Chief: OUT WITH IT ALREADY *Slams desk*
Young Rookie: To catch a violent stalker, we hire a violent stalker. Who better to know how they operate?
Hardboiled Police Chief: I don’t like it one bit, but it’s so radical that it might just work. What happens if they become emotionally invested in our victims?
Young Rookie: That’s inevitable or else we have no real drama, but have you got any other choice? It’s a risk we might just have to take.
Hardboiled Police Chief: You’re a fuck, but you’re right. Only God can save us now.
Young Rookie: And a strong internet cult following. Hey Reddit, how you doin’?
I’m entirely in love with the sheer absurdity of it. I want it to be a thing so I can hate that it exists. If that’s not self-love then I don’t know what is.
In retrospect I might not know what self-love is, making this a load of wank.
Which is self-love, so maybe I do.