Crunch

My phone dings. A text from my roommate, Sarah.

I need french fries.

Wow. French fries. That does sound pretty good. And, even better, Sarah usually has an idea of where to go. Sure enough:

Okay, so we could go to Cafe Mogador. Or Seventh Street Burger. They have an impossible burger for me.

Wow. A BURGER?! My night just keeps getting better and better. In fact, a burger sounds a little too good. Could it be? I check the date. Yep. Sure enough.

Is it our time already? I text Sarah.

Just about!

Well. That explains that. I’ll have to be a little more careful of my… reactivity, if you will. I am not always my best self on the 17th of the month. If you have not caught my drift yet this blog post, I’m incredibly envious. And you’re probably not a woman.

Later, when Sarah gets home from work, she pulls out the Whole Foods jalapeño cheeto’s for a little snack as she scrolls through her phone on the couch.

I’m still sitting at the table working, and people are not thrilling me. It’s 6pm and I would like to be sitting on the couch with some knock-off cheeto’s. But instead I’m trying to coax Ai into doing what I need, responding to chats I’ve been putting off, and tweaking tiny arbitrary copy updates on my art. My brows start to knit of their own accord.

Crunch. Crunch. Crunch.

With each crunch my shoulders get a little tighter. It’s the loudest crunching I’ve ever heard in my life. And her mouth is closed. (Sarah has good manners.) Another handful.

CRUNCH. CRUNCH. CRUNCH.

I almost scream. But then I remember. March 17th. It’s not me, it’s not me, it’s not me. It’s not her, it’s not her, it’s not her.

I take a few huge breaths. And slowly, the crunching feels a little less targeted and more like what it is: crunching.

I finish work and we leave to pick up our fries and burgers. After a few crispy, salty fries and a couple sips of a hazy IPA I’d been saving, I am in a much, much better place.