Taking time off from yourself

I get that this is hypocritical based on the fact that I just wrote about needing time to myself, and now I’m talking about taking time off from that.

Out with friends the other night, the drunken chats turned towards the fact that girls are way too hard on themselves. My boyfriend is constantly telling me to cut myself some slack and to just relax into life a bit more, but if I don’t feel in control of something, I let it run away with me.

All of last week I had the weirdest craving for beans on toast. Nothing fancy, no artisan bread or homemade organic beans, just heinz and two slices of white. After a few days, I told myself I would have it on Saturday morning for brunch, as a treat.


I think that’s when I realised I needed to calm down a little bit, and not be quite so militant with what I put in my body, and then expect out of it afterwards. I went for post-work drinks on Friday and people were genuinely amazed that I was there. A few of our friends came to the pub after another event, and were surprised that I was still there at midnight.

I used to fun. I swear. I used to go out every week, every night, I used to be the one people called to go to parties with, and exhibitions and bizarre events that they knew noone else would be up for. Now people are surprised that I managed to get through a social occasion with people I’ve known over a year.

And it’s because I’m permanently exhausted. And permanently worried about where my calories are coming from, and how much exercise I’m doing, and how much sleep I’ll be getting. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy..

So this week I’m taking time off. Not from work, but from myself. No more counting calories, no more weighing my dinner before I eat it, no more prioritising the gym over spending actual time with actual people.

And if I end the week a few pounds heavier but a few tons happier, that seems a fair deal to me.