Small Acts of Rebellion
On pastries as pleasure and selfishness as self-care
If you follow me on Instagram, you may know I’m a proud member of the Little Treat Coping Community (a term coined by my dear friend Kat,
.)
Recently, I was standing in line at a bakery for my post-therapy treat. I couldn’t decide between three kinds of pastries that looked so delicious: An orange cardamom cruffin, a gooey caramel apple Danish, and a warm, savory egg-and-veggie croissant. I sighed and said to no one in particular, “It’s so hard to choose.”
The woman next to me replied, “Oh, you have to get all of them.”
“Yeah?” I said. “But if I get them all, then I’ll have to share them with my family when I get home.”
“Oh, no no no. Here’s what I do,” she pointed to the oversize hobo-style purse slung over her shoulder. “I keep a book and a stash of treats in my bag and in my car and when I need a break from my family, I drive around or I head to a park and read, and I eat the pastries, just a little bit at a time.”
Another woman overhearing us chimed in, “Yep. I do that too. A secret stash. It keeps me sane.”
They said it so matter-of-factly, that I wondered why I hadn’t considered this before, a small act of rebellion. Selfishness as self-care.
I looked at these glowing, fit, middle-aged women — the same type of women I see hiking the mountain trails outside of town or at the local Pilates studio or cheering from the sidelines of soccer games — and imagined them sneaking away to their cars, turning the pages of escapist fiction and munching on carbs.
This secret behavior could be viewed as desperate and lonely (or benign compared to, say, a stash of cigarettes or weed, which I have kept in the past), but to me it suddenly felt communal. We’re all out here doing the best that we can, I thought. We slice off pieces of our souls and feed them to our children, our partners, our bosses. Who is feeding us?
Whereas I’d been allowing myself little treats — a latte here or cookie there, at reasonable intervals and only after I felt like I’d earned them — these women were thinking bigger. They embodied an ease and sense of worthiness that I aspired to.
They were a couple steps closer to answering a question that many burned-out mothers grapple with: Do I deserve to have things (experiences, thoughts, desires) that are mine and mine alone? Or more broadly: Are women allowed to choose something for their own pleasure rather than devoting themselves to pleasing others?
This echoes some of the central questions in my memoir: How much do we owe to the people we love? And what do we owe ourselves? Where exactly are the outer limits of caregiving?
It’s telling that the moment I posted that Instagram video about treating yourself post-therapy, I got a few messages from concerned viewers who wanted to make sure I understood how many troublesome ingredients lurk in those pastries. Do you eat that stuff every week?! one follower asked me. Another lamented that she’d have to spend a couple hours in the gym to compensate for the calories, a price she’s unwilling to pay.
I wanted to scream, It’s not about the fucking pastry! It’s not even about vices. It’s about permission. It’s about owning yourself, reclaiming parts of your younger, untethered soul. It’s about finding moments of abandon so that you can stay sane. It’s about confronting the ways we abide by unspoken rules, the do’s and don’ts that follow around most women, mothers, caregivers like a weighted chain.
Personally, it might also have something to do with watching someone I love die way too young and suddenly wondering, WHAT DOES IT MEAN TO BE ALIVE? Is it okay to choose quality of life over quantity? What exactly is “balance” anyway?
I can’t answer that for you. But I’ll tell you, as I write this, I’m munching on a warm croissant.
I’m feeling ragey toward the people who tried to shame you for eating god’s greatest invention. Could you imagine taking pastries away from the French?
I know it’s NOT about the pastries, truly. I will still eat pastries with you, any time, any day, and celebrate us being us!