It's getting to that point in my life when I'm really starting to notice my stunted, childlike habits. This is mostly because I've realized how many of my friends have grown-up apartments and grown-up cooking skills, and how much time I spend marveling at both.
I'm bad at these things. I live in an elderly woman's wood-paneled basement with nothing on the walls. Every mismatched piece of furniture I own came free from the side of a road somewhere, except for my couch, table lamp, and bed, which were free from other sources. I don't have a dresser. I like the idea of cooking, but am riddled with anxiety about it enough to not actually attempt much of anything. I cook pasta and canned sauce or pierogies when I'm feeling adventurous. The other day I had a mini-crisis in the supermarket when I had to convince myself not to buy frozen burritos. Granted, my eating habits have steadily improved over the years, but still. These are not "grown-up" things.
And then I think about my grandma, whose apartment was a complete disaster zone and whose culinary pinnacle was making chrusciki (a very simple polish pastry) maybe once a year. Everything else she ate came in the form of a Schwan's frozen dinner that "the Schwan's man" would deliver to her doorstep in bulk every couple weeks. I suppose everything evens out somehow, and I love you grandma, but this is not what I want for myself.
In closing, I will maybe try harder. Though it doesn't help that I share a kitchen with two women who have far superior cooking skills and who, whenever i enter the kitchen, call me "Sandwich Queen" or not-so-cleverly quip, "well, I'm glad
someone is using the toaster oven."
