The Healthiness of Guilty Pleasures
Despite a severe lack of spirituality on my end,
I have always admired a Buddhist monk’s will-power, self-control, and focus on
important things over earthly pleasures. I strive to not only be a good person,
but lead a satisfying life with minimal regrets.
Some months ago, a man wanted to buy me a
drink, and when I merely got water, he was shocked, put-off, and exclaimed, “What
sins do you do?”
“None,” I replied, perfectly honestly. “If I do
something I regret, I don’t do it again. If I don’t regret it, I don’t consider
it a sin.”
I’ve been very good about restraining myself
when it comes to making hedonistic choices that I will later make me unhappy.
Even my last relationship, which was hard on me, was never based on impulse or
even pleasure. I stuck around, sure, because the thought of being without him
was unbearable, but also because I knew myself. Even when I began to accept the
problems would get worse, not better, if I ended things before I truly
understood what went wrong, I would be harder put to let go. In some foolish
way, I knew that I would regret prematurely leaving rather than staying until
long after it was dead, dead, dead.
And I don’t regret it. I am bound and
determined to never let myself be in that situation again, and if I woke up two
years ago, I’d make very different decisions, but I don’t wish it hadn’t
happened, I see benefits to my experiences. I learned a lot, I had fun at
times, and I found feelings I didn’t know for sure I was capable of. I may have
been humiliated and hardened by the relationship, but do I wish I hadn’t made
the decisions I did? Not really. I understand what I was going through and
respect my younger self for her optimism and compassion, even if I have no
desire to be that girl again.
In any case, in the following months after our
break-up, the more miserable, angry, and pessimistic I became, the more I
latched onto future planning and not living in the moment. I still remained at
home, wrote instead of socialized, and though I tried to put myself out there a
few times, the experiences were awful—most occasions ending in ongoing sexual harassment
by a few individuals I merely engaged with in small talk for a few minutes.
I struggled to think on how to make myself
happier, to enjoy the moment or television shows or books or socialization… or
anything really. I was miserable, and it seemed subconsciously set on being
miserable, unable to focus long enough to get anything creative done, unable to
immerse myself long enough to have some fun.
I have a friend whose misery is evident in her
physical appearance; every time she’s unhappy with her life, she goes out and gets
a haircut, dye, or tattoo. From her, I recognized the desire to change
something about my physical appearance when I was dissatisfied with my life.
And as someone who loved having long hair, I decided that going out and cutting
it on impulse would be something I’d regret after the novelty wore off. I haven’t
cut my hair since the eighth grade.
Now, in my hopes to be more impulsive,
outgoing, and just happy in general, I made a decision. I chopped off eight
inches of hair. And I’m a thousand times happier.
As I looked at my ponytail, filled with split
ends, I thought, “Yeah, it took me a long time getting there, but it was a
mess.” I worried about it turning out poorly, that I’d be stuck with a terrible
haircut, that I’d be mad at myself for making the decision and I’d end up with
something much worse than what I had before.
But instead, I feel better about myself. Sure,
a bit of the enthusiasm I have is purely due to it being different, a temporary
high, but who’s to say that isn’t just as meaningful? Just because it’s not
lasting doesn’t mean that happiness doesn’t mean something. Take it from
someone who has constantly denied herself the little joys in life in favor of
bigger gains: smelling the roses, eating that piece of pie, buying a new shirt,
or anything considered frivolous—even shallow—can be what makes your life more
colorful.
When I was new to writing, I constantly judged
the books I loved. As a teenager, I was pretty much filled with cynicism and
judgment period, but I refused to consider writing the “silly” pleasures I got
from the books I read. I mean, I was far more open minded at 12 than 20 (I
praise my early writing for its honesty, relatability, and appeal), but it took
me some time to stop resisting “commercial” elements, respecting my personal
tastes, and being true to my opinions. I started to reflect on what I really
felt about things, rather than saying, “Well it’s for kids, therefore it’s not
serious.”
At 20, I realized my work, while much superior
in precision, continuity, and stakes, lacked the draw, the feeling that the
books I wanted to read had—what my earlier manuscripts had in spades.
Guilty pleasures, I argued at one point, aren’t
little embarrassments we should hide. Sometimes they’re exactly what we need to
add to make a story worthwhile.
It’s obvious that life—and writing—is about
achieving a balance, and yet it’s fairly easy to forget it. In fact, it’s much
less risky to continually focus on the present or the future, but switching back and forth? Not so much.
In summation, my hair’s all gone and with it a
whole lot of baggage.
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