Permission
Some time ago, I was trying to figure out some random schedule conflict, having taken on too many obligations; and as I beat my head against my calendar, trying to strategize my way out of the corner I had overbooked myself into, a thought came to me.
I could give myself permission to cancel. It would be unthinkable, surely, to say “no,” but the very idea of granting myself the grace to uninvite myself to some dime-a-dozen Zoom meeting seemed revelatory.
And if it feels so seismic to give myself permission to decline a Zoom meeting, maybe there’s more where that came from; I could give myself permission to be nicer to myself; or, dare I say, even kinder to myself.
Instantly, my mind jumps into a defensive pose; if I’m kinder to myself, that means there are Consequences (with a capital C). I give myself permission to rest instead of work, and this might mean that my schedule the following day becomes a little more unforgiving; it might even mean that I get paid less, or paid later. I give myself permission to treat myself to a sandwich and fries for lunch, or spring for dessert; and this means money out of my pocket, or that lifelong goal of losing weight getting pushed another yard back.
But as I’ve gotten older, the myth of perfection shows its true colors; not so much an ideal, than a whip. The perfect diet, the perfect budget, the perfect work schedule, they all come from a good place — to save our money, to be healthy, to be productive — and, like all things that come from good places, the further they go, the more they lose their way.
So the need to be careful with our money becomes an austerity measure; nevermore will you treat yourself to that ice cream. The need to be productive becomes an obsession; tired as you are, you will throw yourself at the grindstone. The need to be healthy becomes a fixation; any form of indulgence, no matter how benign, becomes a stone of shame in your shoe.
Slowly and suddenly, those standards we set for ourselves become less like guidelines for healthy living, and more like boulders around our necks, drowning us under the weight of expectations.
There was a time when the idea of granting permission to be kind to myself was laughable. Permission is a form of indulgence, and can I really afford to be indulgent? Can my health afford that pizza dinner? Can my budget afford that concert ticket? Can my schedule afford not cramming something into an otherwise free evening?
And the harsh truth is: no, probably not. Time is money. Life is short.
Permission does mean accepting that there is something on the other side of that trade. Every parent who has given their kid permission to do something knows that they’re accepting the consequences of whatever that permission entails. And yes, there will be times that the pleading child needs to be told “no”; there will be times that the comfort food has to be kept at bay, that the budget must be maintained, and that deadlines must be followed.
But, God help us, what kind of life do we live if we measure our existence by the ruler and the clock? What kind of happiness do we create if we never color outside the lines, or let our kid stay up a few minutes past their bedtime?
So, yes, I’ll give myself permission to have the burger instead of the salad, knowing that even as I add up the calories, that burger will be delicious. I’ll give myself permission to do something fun, even as I know that time is money, and there is never enough of either; because, my God, how my brain breathes in the dopamine of that gaming session. And yes, that also means that maybe I’ll have to work harder and longer tomorrow.
But tomorrow will come when it will. While the sun shines today, I give myself permission to enjoy life. Who knows, I might even like it.
