Originally published in The Clifton Courier, October 3, 2018

Relaxation can be far from relaxing.

I recently had two days off work thanks to a cold. It was one of those colds you just had to let pass. There wasn’t really much I could do for it besides rest and fluids.

I took care of the fluids part by making drinking my water out of a stein make hydration seem more exciting*. It was the rest part of the equation that I really had to work on.

* Sometimes, if I really want to spice up water, I’ll make myself a nice, fizzy cup of Eno. I know it’s supposed to be for tummy troubles, but I just love that lemony shit. One of these days I can see myself making up an Eno cocktail. Maybe it would pair well with gin? Vodka? Incredibly cheap tequila I never intended on keeping down anyway? Expect a horrible recipe soon. 

Because I had the luxury of two days without responsibilities, I felt the need to be decadent in my approach to rest – like an underwhelming health retreat.

I felt the need for something more than medical healing like gargling with salt water; I felt like I should be spending this time doing something spiritually healing. Something that fits within the vague parameters of “self care”.

Now, self care is something that can range anywhere from ignoring notifications on your phone an hour before bed to prepare ready for sleep to carelessly ditching your recently-dumped mate to go on a solo $5000 on a spa retreat in Bali. The limits of self care are defined only by your selfishness and disposable income.

But, in a nutshell, self care is about being kind to yourself.

So, in a bid to satisfy this urge, I opted for something that vaguely fit within the realm of “pampering” while remaining true to my edgy, cynical, still-festering-in-teen-angst side: I decided to paint my fingernails black.

But when I tried to open the nail polish bottle, I was unable to unscrew the top. I thought I might have just been greasy at first (I’d just cracked into a family-sized packet of Tim Tams I bought to cheer up my housemate) but it became clear the lid was sealed from nail polish that had dried around the rim. So I started hacking at it with a knife. And just when I thought I was making progress, I sliced the whole top off, glass rim and all. The top flung across the room, splattering thick, black goop on the couch and carpet. I then spent the next 20 minutes scrubbing furiously. I was far from relaxed – I was flustered, annoyed and smelled like nail polish remover.

This made me think of an incident the other day, when I tried to light a scented candle to calm me. I’d had a stinker of a day. I was tired after having a terrible sleep the night before. My trusty jeggings* were in the wash. I had no birds or squirrels to help me dress. I stayed back an hour after work and achieved very little in that time. I was ignored by two of the busses I tried to flag down after getting too puffed from my jog to make my home on foot. No one offered me a tasteful leather briefcase full of money. A stinker of a day.

* Yes, I still wear jeggings. They will never not be a part of my life. 

But I decided to put it behind me.

I lit a scented candle, thinking to myself “you know what, you deserve this, you need to relax”. I grabbed my matches and struck a light. As the match ignited, I heard the crackling pop of fire in my ear.

Then I smelt it. That smell that anyone who has ever used heated hair styling tools fears.

I’d managed to burn my hair.

Only a little though. I mean, my head didn’t go up in flames, but still.

The scent that filled the room wasn’t a calming camellia so lovely it practically whispers affirmations about my being a goddess with each flicker of the flame. No. It was the smell of singed hair, screaming at me that I was a damned fool.

On Friday I came home exhausted, ready to curl up in bed and waste my evening scrolling through Instagram. But then I told myself to get up, make a cup of tea and enjoy the breeze from the balcony. And the tea was lovely. I began to unwind. Things seemed better.

But then I somehow managed to choke on a mouthful of tea*, nearly vomiting in the process. And not only did my mouth taste of spew but, as I’d had an extra spicy this-might-fix-my-cold curry for lunch, my throat was now burning.

* For a second there I did think “this is it, I’m done”. And not that I’d want to die drowning on a mouthful of tea, but I feel it would be pretty poetic. People would say that I died doing what I loved: drinking tea in complete solitude, wearing pony pyjama pants. What a way to go.

I mean, things going wrong with open flames and toxic liquids I can understand, but tea? The elixir that nourishes my very soul? Heartbreaking.

What next? I go for a calming stroll and roll my ankle? I sit by the beach and get pooed on by a seagull? I watch a beloved movie from my youth and realise it’s actually super demeaning and full of cringey punch lines that make me feel uncomfortable?

Maybe relaxation might just be too stressful for me.