There was a time, not so long ago, when my idea of ‘self care’ was a hot bubble bath and a detox face mask after a long weekend on the lash; as if the myriad of toxins I’d shovelled into my system over the course of the past 48 hours would simply be purged from my pores with a bit of haphazardly-applied deep-cleansing clay, then flushed away down the plughole with the bathwater and body glitter (not to mention several thousand brain cells and any memory of where a week’s wages had mysteriously disappeared to since Friday).
I’d lower my creaking carcass into the steaming tub inch by inch, wincing as my battered body gradually became accustomed to the change in temperature: from the blisters on my dancefloor-weary feet to the flu-like body aches and the ringing ears in my pounding head; the thump of the bass at the club still reverberating around my skull and ricocheting off the backs of my eyeballs.
If I was feeling upto it, I might then baste myself liberally in self-tan to conceal the mottled skin on my thighs, dark under-eyes, a smattering of broken capillaries across my cheeks...perhaps the odd bruise; collateral damage in exchange for a wild night or two of clubbing. Paint my toenails to disguise the fact they’d turned black from days of dancing. They’re just party injuries, I’d shrug nonchalantly to myself, applying another layer of foundation to my pasty complexion and creating an illusion of a healthy glow with highlighter. I’d paint on a smile with a bold lip and try not to allow it to slip southwards into a grimace as the hangover took hold the next day.
Of course, I knew that my lifestyle was damaging my body; nobody is stupid enough to think that smoking, drinking and staying up all night are the secrets to eternal youth. I used to joke that if my organs were on the outside I’d have been forced to clean up my act long ago. Imagine how unattractive nicotine-nuked lungs and a shrivelled fatty liver would be to potential partners, should they be able to see them - not to mention all the passion-killing ailments my male counterparts might be hiding (Brewer’s droop is a real party pooper).
But these days we’re so focused on superficial ideas of beauty that as long as we look as though we’re taking care of ourselves on the outside, nobody spends too much time dwelling on the state of our insides. Or at least, not until they start to malfunction...
Sadly, all those decades spent partying in our teens, twenties, thirties...and even into our 40s and beyond for many of us, well, they are not without consequence. Whilst we may have swanned through the naughty noughties without so much as a heart palpitation, two decades into the new millennium and you can spot an old caner at twenty paces. They’ll be the ones with a face wrinklier than Gordon Ramsay’s ballsack, teeth like a row of bombed houses, broken veins that resemble an Ordnance Survey map and the ruddy complexion that looks as though they swapped their flannel for a cheese grater. Whilst Mick Jagger may still have the swagger, the average 40-something looks less like they can still cut a rug, and more like the threadbare old rug itself. One that’s seen a helluva lot of action.
Listen, I’m not judging your lifestyle. If you want to party hard until you shuffle, shitfaced, off this mortal coil, go for it. We’re here for a good time, not a long time, right? Or that’s how I used to justify my Club 18-30s-style shenanigans...
It’s taken me a long time to reach full Sauvignon saturation, but now I’ve finally woken up and smelt the coffee (literally - I only drank coffee for the first time last year, aged 44), I want to live long enough to truly discover my potential. If I can achieve all that I have so far in the permanent twilight zone existence of a lifelong lush, imagine what I have yet to achieve sober. The possibilities are endless.
Now I know that real self care is not sprucing yourself up superficially...before smoking, drinking or drugging yourself into oblivion without a second thought for the health of your future self.
Real self care is eating the right foods, exercising, sleeping at night (instead of staying up until sunrise chatting nonsense), relaxing, broadening your mind with new information and skills, being creative, and paying close attention to your physical and mental health. Proper, grown up self care is treating your mind and body as the incredible tools they are: with respect. Slapping on a soothing sheet mask to undo a 2-day bender is like putting on a band-aid to fix a severed limb. Utterly ridiculous.
Nowadays I’m treating myself with the loving care I should have credited myself with years ago. Will I be able to undo all the damage I’ve done to myself? I doubt it. Was the partying worth it? I’m not sure. I mean, I think I had fun...but can I remember it all? Of course not! It’s like looking through a confusing kaleidoscope of jumbled memories. But they say you have to experience the lows to appreciate the highs...and man, did I get high.
Any regrets? Nah. Although sometimes I still dream that I’m out drinking...and it’s always a huge relief to wake up in my own bed, stone-cold sober. Yes, I may sound like I’m getting old...but lemme tell you, being sober, and the inner peace that comes with that? It never gets old.
It’s taken me the best part of 5 decades on this earth to truly value my health and my life...
...now I just pray I’m lucky enough to enjoy a few more 🙏🏻.
Day 200 💪🏻
Sam x
Fancy reading my back-story before you go any further? You can find my other blogs at:
www.worldwidewalsh.blogspot.com
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