“What do you do for self-care?” she asked, in her perfectly coiffed bun, perched upon her head, every hair in place, gleaming with the tears of procrastinators and less beautiful people. Her legs were daintily crossed, her manicured hands poised above her papers, waiting for my response.
Slouching in my chair, I chuckled nervously, trying to think of one piece of evidence that made me the type of person who did yoga outdoors, meditated for hours with a singing bowl, and slept before 10pm. “I’m just thinking of everything that I have to do,” I blurt, failing to answer the question, suddenly aware of how non-unique my response was.
“Do you do anything for fun?” she asked. I scanned the walls, looking for a non-existent clue, remembering the times when I had a boss who asked every Monday, “What did you do over the weekend?” I was doing it again, scouring my mind for just appropriate enough levels of revelry, as if I had options to choose from. What was an answer that would make me sound fun, but not too irresponsible? Wait, am I allowed to lie? No, I’m not a lying person. But I could be, if that meant that I would become a fun person.
“Well, I know if something is difficult, I will ask a friend to go out to eat. Sometimes, I eat pastries!” I answer. Relieved, her painted eyebrows danced, her eyes sparkling. She brought the pen back down, a sparrow pecking her paper, scribbling (I imagine), “Eats her feelings!”