Covering horrifying news this week left me feeling exhausted. In addition, it was just a full week in general. I had things going on every day after work. When I got home in the evenings, I poured some food in Carlos’ bowl, tossed clothes, mail, etc. on the chair and washed my face and got into my cozy bed. In the mornings, I’d give Carlos a good brushing and check his litter box before leaving for the day.
Although I volunteered to work today (Saturday), I was thrilled when my phone rang late last night with the news that I didn’t need to sign on to work today. I could just be on call in case anything broke.
I woke up this morning and looked around my messy apartment. Dishes were piled up in the sink. Cat fur covered the rug. That pile on the chair needed dealing with. I made coffee, fed Carlos and collected the mail to sort through while streaming “Smash.”
While tackling the other chores, I got to wondering why I prioritized the cat all week. I scooped his litter box and brushed him daily even though I was neglecting my own comfort. Not that Carlos doesn’t deserve to be cared for. I mean he is the one in this apartment 24 hours a day. I come and go.
It reminded me of a couple conversations I’ve had recently. One was with a co-worker who told me she wants to get a cat, but she doesn’t think it would be fair to have a pet in her tiny studio. “Then I remember I live there,” she said.
We laughed at the irony of thinking her place is suitable for a grown adult, but not an 8-pound cat.
Another friend was telling me he could never have kids in the city because he wouldn’t want to subject them to the people on the subway. “It’s bad enough that I have to see people peeing on the subway. I shouldn’t expose children to that,” he said.
Fair point. But again, what’s with the I-can-handle-it-but-no-one-else-should-have-to attitude? Don’t we deserve to treat ourselves well, too?