The life-changing magic of being selfish

I consider myself a fairly organised, orderly person. I can be messy, sure, but on the whole, there’s a place for everything and almost everything is in its place. If you dropped in on me unexpectedly, there might be a few dishes in the sink, and my bed might be unmade, but other than that, I wouldn’t have to do much tidying up.

My life is busy, you know? And I’m happiest when I can tick off a long list of tasks accomplished in a day, and fall into bed exhausted, but satisfied with what I’ve managed to accomplish.

But every now and then, about once or twice a year, it all goes to pot. Because when the stars align just right – and by the stars, I mean my children’s social lives – I am blissfully, ecstatically alone for 24 hours. Well, except for the Mostly Staffie, who is a Dog of Great Anxiety and therefore is often to be found glued to my side.

But I don’t mind him. He doesn’t require much more than a fuss every now and then, a bowl of dog food twice a day, and fresh drinking water. He never says, “Mom,” he never needs to be driven anywhere, and feeding him requires no thought, and miniscule effort on my part. So he doesn’t count, really.

So each time one of these oases of solitude appears unexpectedly, joyfully in my life, a curious thing happens. I go feral. It’s a fact.

Were you to drop in on me at one of those times, you’d find me probably in my pyjamas, or at best the tracksuit pants and hoodie outfit known as my schlumpadinkas (thank you, Oprah, for that word). I may or may not have bathed and brushed my teeth, and my hair definitely won’t be brushed – but that’s because a hairbrush is death to curly hair, so I guess there’s no real difference there.

And then there’s the house. There will be dishes and crumbs and general mayhem. Any clothes I did find the energy to wear will probably be lying in clumps on the floor. Books will be lying open all over the place, there’ll be paper all over the piano if I’ve been tinkering with a song, and there’s no chance my bed is even remotely neat, let alone made.

But the best part is my diet. Because while the Good Book says man cannot live on bread alone, I’m here to tell you that woman can definitely live on toast. And does, given half a chance. (It does make me worry that I might end up as a tea-and-toast lady when I’m in my eighties and just can’t be bothered, but that’s a problem for later.)

So I live on toast. Peanut butter features strongly, since I believe that toast with peanut butter and Marmite is a wholly balanced meal. The toast provides the carbs, the peanut butter is protein, and Marmite is made from vegetables, isn’t it? I’m sure it is. I tell myself it is. Plus it’s vegetarian, so I’m saving the planet, aren’t I?

If I want dessert, well then there’s peanut butter and apricot jam – which I made myself, and with 25% less sugar. So I’m getting some fruit in too. It’s a complete diet, I tell ya. (Can you tell I’ve spent a lot of time as a health journalist? Are you impressed by my nutritional knowledge?)

And I can’t tell you how happy it makes me to be completely selfish just for a short while. There’s no rearranging my schedule to get other people to the places they need to be at. There’s no wracking my brain to figure out what to cook, with the ingredients I have at hand, that everyone will eat, that is nutritionally balanced, and that I’m not bored to tears by ‒ either in the cooking or eating thereof.

I don’t have to do laundry so that other people have school uniforms, or sports gear, or jeans for a party. I don’t have to do any last minute rescue – either emotional or practical – on projects that aren’t going well. I can just be me, in my schlumpadinkas, reading all day, and living on toast.

I couldn’t live like that forever, though. I do like to be organised and tidy, and clean, you’ll be pleased to hear. In fact, I once seriously considered becoming a professional organiser, since nothing makes me happier than tidying up, and putting systems in place to make life productive and more easy to navigate.

But every now and then it is just delicious to pretend that I have no responsibilities to anyone but myself, and to revel in the life-changing magic of being selfish.