Today I felt embarrassed by my sense of accomplishment. I’m not quite sure what to do with that.
I did all the meal planning and prep work for the week. My family’s dinner is my responsibility for five out of seven nights of the week. I hate getting home at the end of the day and thinking, “Oh crap. What am I going to do for dinner?” That inevitably results in way too much take out and nutritional angst. Sure pizza and noodles with jar sauce are fine every once in a while but, really? Dinner has no ninja skills. Its arrival should not surprise me.
So for the past month or so I’ve sat down on Sunday afternoon and made a meal plan. Like, a hard core meal plan. If it can be prepped, chopped, measured, premade, or labeled then I am all over it. Monday we’re having corn and red pepper chowder. I’m not even talking about some kind of high sodium canned bullshit. Homemade vegetable stock. Monday’s dinner is sitting in the fridge right now melding its flavors like, “BOOM! Suck it, Campbells!”
And the same is true for all the other nights of the week: Tuesday – Pork stir fry, no need to do any prep work because it’s already my bitch. Wednesday – whole grain linguine with broccoli, lemon, and bacon LIKE A BOSS. Thursday – MOTHER EFFING QUICHE FROM SCRATCH!
It’s at about that point that the shame kicks in. Intellectually I know planning ahead for what will undoubtedly be an insane week makes sense. But then I realize I’m now a person who derives a sense of accomplishment from quiche and uses the word “eff” instead of “fuck.”
I don’t know if I’m mourning my youth or what. It’s like I’m deriving satisfaction from basic grown up stuff I should be doing anyway. “LOOK AT ME! I cleaned my toilet. And don’t even get me started on my oil changes because that shit is up. to. DATE.”
But even if I were creating a vaccine for AIDS I’d still need to do the basic grown up stuff like eat dinner. So maybe I just need to get over my quiche shame.
Quiche shame. Is that a thing? I feel like that should be a thing. Image source