Today: Kick your roommates, your life partners, and your pets out of the house! It's time to take over the kitchen and cook something for yourself.
Here is a list of things I do to celebrate myself, in order from least to most effective:
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10. Reread something I wrote senior year of high school, which always ends in embarrassment. 9. Think about getting my nails done but decide not to because gnawing guilt. 8. Reread Walt Whitman's "Song of Myself" outloud, on the subway. 7. Think about buying a green juice but decide not to because $10. 6. Take a nap—even if it's 10 A.M; even if it's 6 P.M. 5. Go for a solo walk in the park. 4. Stretch theatrically, accompanied by loud sighs. And crack my knuckles while I'm at it. 3. Listen to Taylor Swift's latest album from start to finish (skipping the voice memos). 2. Change into the high-waisted sweatpants I bought in eighth grade. 1. Cook myself a real, proper, grown-up dinner.
On the rare evenings when I have the apartment to myself—when the only sounds are my cat chirping and some country music bleating and fewer horns honking than typical on the street below—nothing makes me feel more responsible than making myself dinner. Managing, somehow, to put crispy asparagus, a couple soft-boiled eggs, and salad—Oh, salad! Is there any food more adult than salad?—on a plate undoes all of the stupid mistakes I made that day (mispronouncing "borage"; forgetting where I dropped off my sweater for dry-cleaning three months ago; mispronouncing "tagliatelle"; accidentally hitting "Reply All"; mispronouncing "dulce de leche").
A (former) student of English, a lover of raisins, a user of comma splices. My spirit animal is an eggplant. I'm probably the person who picked all of the cookie dough out of the cookie dough ice cream. For that, I'm sorry.