I’m sitting wearing a towel on the couch (ooh la la, but no, don’t get too excited) procrastinating. I’m delaying making a decision. A very very important decision.
What will I make for supper?
Seriously.
I realize this is beyond first world problems. I have food in the fridge and the pantry. I have drive-thru and curbside options. Or, assuming I won’t be putting on pants any time soon, contactless delivery options.
I just can’t make the decision. So I’ve cleaned and showered (hence the towel) and played a jigsaw puzzle app on my phone
and I’m freakin’ hungry, y’all.
And yet I cannot make a decision. The deciding has become way more complicated and time-consuming than any cooking.
It’s like there is some rogue part of my brain which believes that if I actually decide on — and heaven forbid actually make — dinner, the streets will be crawling with T-1000s trying to kill Sarah Connor.
Yep, that’s it. That’s all I have today. I’m hungry. I have food. But somehow there’s a disconnect between these two facts.
p.s. I was going to add a random meal photo and caption it Food: it’s not what’s for dinner. But I don’t take many random pics of meals and so the only food-related pic on my phone is one of the wee demon exploring inside the fridge. Obviously I don’t want to imply that she’s food. And the fridge is not particularly well-stocked. You can see a jar of pickle juice (no pickles, a bottle of beer (not mine as I’m not a fan), an egg carton (closed so we just have to assume there are eggs), a bag of carrots, a block of cheese, several bottles of some sports drink, and possibly a jar of actual pickles. Mostly I focused on the cat butt in the middle of it all.
Dammit. I’m just going to make soup. Or spaghetti. Or rice and frozen mini wontons. Why is this so hard!?!
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