the cost of maintenance

i had a heavy week and did not quite know what to do with myself, so after what felt like ages, i went to a parlour for a facial.

nothing dramatic. no reinvention. i simply wanted to sit still while somebody else took care of one small thing for me because everything else felt slightly beyond professional repair.

while i was there, i could hear people nearby discussing the treatments and procedures they get every few months to take care of themselves. they spoke about them casually, like appointments that naturally belonged on the calendar beside groceries, bills and birthdays.

there was nothing wrong with that.

i liked being looked after too. i liked leaving with cleaner skin and the temporary illusion that the rest of my life had also received some attention.

but somewhere during those three hours, i started wondering about the cost of maintenance.

not the amount written on the receipt.

the cost of turning something optional into something necessary.

we are surrounded by things that begin as pleasures and quietly become standards. a treatment becomes a monthly requirement. a new outfit becomes an expectation for every occasion. a perfectly functional phone begins to feel embarrassing because another one has been released. a ten-minute routine becomes fifty minutes because apparently the face now has departments.

none of these things is inherently bad.

wanting beautiful clothes does not make someone shallow. enjoying skincare does not mean they lack perspective. i want the latest gadgets more often than my bank account finds appropriate. i love travelling, taking photographs and buying things simply because they make life feel prettier.

this is not an argument against wanting more.

it is a question of how much of “more” we can afford to make essential.

because every standard we build has to be maintained.

not only with money, but with time, energy and attention. once something becomes part of how we recognise ourselves, losing access to it can feel less like changing a habit and more like losing a part of our identity.

and life is not always generous.

money becomes tight. energy disappears. responsibilities change. the version of the future we planned does not arrive on schedule. sometimes the things that once felt effortless become impossible to sustain.

what happens then?

have we built a life flexible enough to survive change, or one that only feels acceptable under ideal conditions?

perhaps this is why i remain irrationally attached to my Expecto Patronum cup, my laptop and an occasional meal from KFC. give me coffee, something to build and enough space to think, and a surprising amount of me remains functional.

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that does not make me better than someone whose happiness looks different.

it simply means i am wary of raising my own baseline so high that an ordinary life begins to feel like deprivation.

there is also another kind of maintenance that is harder to photograph.

the maintenance of personality.

being cheerful enough to keep a room comfortable. interesting enough to remain wanted. available enough to prove that you care. quiet enough not to appear difficult. successful enough to be taken seriously, but not so visibly proud that somebody mistakes it for arrogance.

we learn which versions of ourselves receive approval, then spend years keeping those versions alive.

later that night, i walked in circles on the roof with my phone in my hand, pretending to be nonchalant. i had recently learned things i wanted to talk about, but i did not know how to begin without sounding demanding, dramatic or too eager to be understood.

so i waited, quietly hoping one particular person would create an opening for the conversation i could not bring myself to start.

that, too, is maintenance: acting unbothered so nobody has to deal with the weight of your feelings, while privately hoping someone will notice them anyway.

eventually, even being “easygoing” can become a performance.

people admire how little you need, so you become embarrassed by needing anything. you are praised for adapting, so you stop admitting when something hurts. simplicity becomes less of a choice and more of an expectation placed upon you.

that is where low maintenance becomes expensive.

not because you demand too much, but because you spend so much energy ensuring nobody else ever has to accommodate you.

i do not want to develop elaborate demands just to prove that i have value. i do not want my worth measured by what i wear, spend or require from other people.

but i also do not want simplicity to be confused with having no needs.

perhaps the goal is not to reject maintenance altogether.

some things are worth maintaining: health, faith, friendships, curiosity, the parts of ourselves we worked hard to recover. care requires effort. a meaningful life cannot be built entirely around convenience.

but there is a difference between caring for something and becoming trapped by its upkeep.

i want nice things without needing them to recognise myself.

i want routines that support my life rather than quietly take control of it.

i want to enjoy being cared for without turning care into proof that i matter.

most of all, i want to keep enough simplicity in my life that when circumstances change, and they always do, I can still find something familiar underneath them.

maybe that is what i was thinking about in the parlour.

not whether we should maintain ourselves, but whether we still know who we are beneath everything we have decided must be maintained.

i do not want a life with no beauty, pleasure or indulgence.

i just want those things to remain choices.

because perhaps the heaviest form of maintenance is having to keep supporting a version of yourself you created only because everyone else seemed to be doing the same.

i told you these are opinions no one asked for, dont say i didnt warn you :)