When is anyone supposed to do anything? Bathing, stretching and cooking: the relentless grind of self-care consumes 112 days of my life each year

It was the sixth time I’d washed my hands that day. My red, raw wrists stung as I toweled off, protesting the friction and New York’s bone-dry winter. Being a dog owner (twice-daily poop exposure) during peak respiratory illness season (strangers coughing on you) is no joke.

I thought about how life is a procession of vital, unskippable tasks: washing and eating and resting and pooping and exercising and brushing your teeth on a loop, forever.