I'm sniffing an apple.

I don't really know if I want to eat it. Sure, it looks nice.  It's a Braeburn, which is my favorite kind of apple.  I bought it with the INTENT of eating it, as I'm trying to turn some sort of corner in the health arena and kick this weight gain in the buttocks . But I'm just not sure.  A co-worker just walked in on me sniffing it and asked what I was doing.  But it's kind of hard to explain that while the apple looks and smells delicious, I'm just not sure I want to put in the effort to eat it.  As soon as I take that first bite, I am committed. There's no turning back unless I want to stare into the mottled, browning flesh as I try to eat it later.

An apple a day keeps the doctor away.  I can hear my mom screaming, "Why would you want to keep the doctor away?  DATE HIM!"

Eating an apple is a little bit like life. That first bite is telling the world, "I am ready to invest in the mastication of this food stuff.  I'm willing to sink my teeth in time and time again in order to fulfill my needs."  Just like taking the first step in any direction is saying the same thing to the Universe.  I did it wholeheartedly when I started doing iPlay in college. When I accepted a position at Shadowbox and worked there for 3 years. When I moved to Florida and joined Gated Community, later known as The Jove.  The same with starting and running The Rejects.  It's exhausting, and fulfilling at the same time.  But it's easy to bite off a chunk of the professional "apple" and focus 100% on that to avoid upset stomach from trying to ingest other life foodstuffs, like relationships, friendships, and personal health.

I know I'm in a weird mental place when I can get all this from bringing an apple to work for a mid-day snack.  This weekend was weird. I got super depressed, as I felt that my friends/coworkers/past loves were functioning superbly without my presence in their lives. That even when I was reaching out to someone in an attempt to be a good friend, they were more than willing to not respond. I got so low on Saturday that I was checking and re-checking every social media outlet for any sort of effort, mention, like, or post so that I could have SOME connection with SOMEONE. I even accepted an invite from a young couple that joined the club several years ago and have been asking me and asking me to hang out with them. I worry that because I have focused for so long on the professional aspect of my life that I have in some way compromised my ability to be happy when I am not working.

So I'm going to bite that apple. I'm going to put the work apple aside and chomp down on a big ole friendship/relationship apple.  I'm going to make new friends. I'm going to meet new men. I'm going to be persistent in making sure my current friends know that I am here and that we should be seeing each other more often.  And I'm going to stop feeding my life with work.

And I'm gonna eat this fucking Braeburn apple. Eventually.

Child-like joy

Growing up, my mom never let me play with my food. Ever. She's a jerk.

I'm kidding.  She's not a jerk. Even though she really never let me play with my food.

My sister and I would cross our fingers that the parents had to run errands while we cleaned up dinner.  As the garage door closed behind them, we would look at each other over our half eaten plates of spaghetti and yell, "Hands Free Dinner!" We'd then put our arms behind us and plant our faces in the loops of noodles and tomato sauce.  If we ever, EVER had mashed potatoes, I was in heaven.  I'd take any leftovers and plop them on my plate, using my fork to create wonderful mountains and valleys awash with gravy rivers. I would beg to be able to do the dishes. I'd grab the remaining potatoes that I knew my mom was going to wash down the drain, and I would make little balls, dig my hands in and enjoy the squishy sensation.  She eventually caught on to my ploy and would immediately rinse that bowl so I would be unable to fulfill my goal of playing with my food.

I'm now almost 32 years old, and I live on my own.  I have a dog, a savings account, and a car loan. I decided last night to make my own dinner.  I bought a stuffed flank steak and popped it in the oven at 350 for 30 minutes after doctoring it up with spices.  I contemplated side dishes, and pulled out instant mashed potatoes.  I made my portion, plated both items, and poured myself a glass of wine. I had no thoughts of shenanigans, just planned on eating in front of the television as my roommate was out and I could watch all the shows I'd missed last week.

I took a bite of steak.  Delicious. I segment my food eating, so finished that before moving on to the potatoes.  I stuck the first creamy bite into my craw, and a flashbulb went off in my head.

There was no one there to tell me no.  No one who would judge me. No one to rinse out the bowl before I could play.

I'm an adult. But this totally happened last night, and it's sure to happen again and again.

Look, Ma! No hands!

Tune in next week when I eat an entire plate of spaghetti and meat sauce...WITH NO HANDS!!