Me Time

Earlier this summer, I did something so utterly mundane and possibly not worthy of even writing about: I went to the movies. Shocking for a film major, I know. I waltzed up to the concession stand, ordered my obligatory popcorn, Red Vines (never Twizzlers), and Diet Coke, and settled into one of my favorite places on Earth, drenched in the growing light on the silver screen before me. I was about to see Everything Everywhere All At Once (for the third time might I add) and despite it only being the trailers, my body was already racked into heavy yet silent sobs. So, what? In that movie theater, it was only me and two other folks (who just so happened to be settled right next to my seat). I sat alone in the theater, choking on my own sobs like a very tall child and tried my very best to ignore the concerned looks radiating off of my neighbors. 

I’ve always been an introvert, constantly turned into myself and considering the world around me until I can feel just how quickly we’re orbiting. And this is a fact I’ve always worn with pride. I enjoy going to coffeeshops alone, ordering a coffee or a tea, and looking mysterious while cracking open my latest book or writing project, typing as fast as possible (to establish dominance over other coffee shop attendants, of course). I like to take long walks until the numbness in my legs makes the numbness in my head feel less significant, listening to the latest album or podcast or audiobook or whatever new piece of media I can use to drown out the white noise humming in my brain. I am fiercely independent and it is one of the few aspects of myself that I admire. And this is where I realized I had gone wrong. I had done the very thing I always seem to do:

I romanticized alone time beyond the point for it to feel meaningful. 

I took greater joy in completing actions by myself for the external gratification, rather than the internal gratification. It became glaringly apparent to myself that I would also use the “Sorry! Just need some me time!” as an excuse to draw myself further into myself, further and further until the only thing I could focus on was my heartbeat drumming on and on, making it feel insignificant and arduous. I hate when I do that.

Nonetheless, fresh out of my freshman year of college, where days were spent with close friends in close capacities, ranging from dining halls always stocked with Lucky Charms or rooms drenched in LED lights, I suffered from a touch of separation anxiety. I came home and had to brush my teeth by myself, not while hearing about the girl down the hall’s situationship for the millionth yet always most gripping time. It also appeared to be a summer where solitude seemed to be trendy, as demonstrated with the rise in popularity with the “Hot Girl Walk” and most of your Instagram feed suddenly realizing they’re literate during the summer, I picked this summer as one of internal discovery. (Yuck) With every degree increase on the barometer and lengthening of days, I developed a motivation to spend time with myself in order to grow and to truly fall in love with the action. Because isn’t that the love we should try to prioritize, the love of the person you will actually spend the rest of your life with, whether you like it or not? I identified my self-directed commitment issues and decided to address it (Yuck, yet again.)

So, this summer I developed hobbies beyond reading and writing, two of my fiercests and deepest loves. I stretched my body into new poses and developed internal strength in yoga classes, discovering a form of movement that made my body glow. Long walks were fitting after long days alongside the ocean, where I said goodnight to the sun and hello to a fledgling moon peeking out of clouds. I ate food that made my body feel good, focusing on new nut butters (because there really is one for every type) and fruits. Evenings were filled with movies, tea, and indulgent drives that stretched across many moody miles. I developed a growing latte art skill, ignoring how phallic my heart attempts always turned out to be.  

Towards the end of summer, at work, whilst ignoring the espresso stains on my jeans and the cinnamon roll icing collecting on my fingertips, I felt a groove build up underneath my knees. It’d been the Summer of ABBA at the coffee shop I worked at and “Angeleyes” rattled deep within my bones. Even though I was making a matcha, an action I’ve undergone several times, I found myself being really present with the green potion I was making, carefully pouring it over milk and ice, sweetening it to the customer’s desire. As I rang them up, I noticed a smile dancing on their lips. “Groovy moves,” they said, leaving a hefty tip for a what I could only assume to be a subpar drink. My alone time had bled into my bones, making them move comfortably with my soul for the first time in my life. 

And this feeling was demonstrated in other facets of my life. I noticed more intimate conversations with my friends, complete with loads of oversharing and lurid accounts of our own minutiae. I even found that the romanticization I often plague myself with shifted on the world around me rather than the one growing within my chest. At the end of each day, a time of day I used to dread due to extensive evenings brimming with overthinking and dread-induced nausea, I relaxed comfortably into bed and slept, preparing for the next day where I would spend time with my closest friend: myself. 

It isn’t selfish to take time for yourself, it isn’t selfish to take a break to step back and evaluation just how your heart and soul are working with one another in a given moment of time. At the end of the day, when you’re lying in bed, taking meaningful time for yourself, in which both intimacy and fun are perfectly balanced with one another, you’ll find a smile dancing on your face too. Because, at the end of the day, you danced like no one was watching with the full knowledge that someone was. And you liked it.