Tonight I made dinner.
I made salmon with white wine and dill, roasted yams, and a caesar salad.
I made dinner.
I have not made dinner for a long time. About a year and a half. Not since I moved back from Toronto.
A year and a half ago, I was slightly defeated from three years of attempts to crawl out of solitude, but optimistic about what I was going towards. I had been working out three times a week with a trainer. My health had never been so good and my body reflected it. I saw the trainer, made shakes, cut the carbs after 6pm, drank seldomly, and did not engage in anything beyond alcohol. I made dinner a lot.
So then I moved back. I entered a profession. Got busy, got stressed. I stopped making dinner. I stopped training. I did, however, find something beyond alcohol, something that I largely control but occasionally gets the better of me, like an eighteen year-old in a bar fight. And when I lose that fight, I hate it. Not the first few hours, but those that follow, and the day or two afterwards. You can do the math - the benefits by no means outweigh the costs.
I was scared at first that this was addiction. It is not. I never choose it above anyone or anything I love. It's only there when I'm bored and lonely, popping up anywhere from once a week to once every 3 months. No, I won't be on Intervention anytime soon. But it takes something from me, even so. And my job takes something - a lot of somethings, actually - from me. My family gets a little bit, my friends get some too, when they're around.
And by the end, I'm so tired of lending out little bits, for both good and bad, that there's not a lot left. Not for the gym a mere four floors down. Not seeking new people or communities. Not for making dinner.
It's silly for an adult to wait on being rescued.
