My friends like to ask me if I have a life insurance policy.
After learning that in fact I have 2 life insurance policies, they sarcastically ask to become my heirs. Unfortunately for them, my little sister Tabitha is the sole beneficiary to whatever books and pennies I leave behind.
It is still a rather unsettling question. I mean these are the people who know where I sleep every night. They know which car I drive. They know where I work. They simply know way too much about me.
In other words, I hope they aren’t trying to get rid of me.
I know I may not be the perfect friend, but maybe they sometimes just get jealous of my awesomeness. But after reading what I just wrote, they’re probably sick and tired of my egotistical sarcasm… Never mind, it’s not that.
They ask this question every time we go to the grocery store, when I buy lunch at work, or when I skip meals while poring over homework. It appears very few people approve of my eating habits – my mom included. My friends claim that I will die in my 30’s with millions in the bank because of my choices of food intake. I hope they’re right about the “millions in the bank”.
My groceries for the entire month fill one little shopping basket (not the cart). My friends hate me for being such an abnormal shopper. I go straight for the bare essentials and that’s it. I don’t even touch the fruits and vegetables aisles so I probably save at least an hour of shopping right there.
It’s called being single and busy.
Monday through Friday, my breakfast consists of several cups of coffee, Oreo cookies, and the occasional banana. Don’t laugh. What else am I supposed to eat when the office kitchen is stuffed with all the things you shouldn’t eat? Plus junk food is better than being hungry – that’s my opinion.
Lunch, Monday through Friday, is purchased from pretty much any fast-food or semi-fast-food joint you can imagine. I’ve worked at the office for 6 years, and I have been to 99% of the eateries in the city (I only count the ones with A’s on the door). Subway is healthy. Little Caesar’s is good. Jack-In-the-Box is convenient. MacDonalds is close. Chinese takeout has gigantic servings. Chipotle is is far but worth the drive. In-N-Out is my Achilles’ heel.
I think you get the point. I just don’t have time in my life to prepare my own lunches for work like an adult. And fast-food tastes really good. So every week day I eat fast food.
Dinner is non-existent for me. The only time I eat dinner is on the weekends or in the highly unusual situation of being invited to my parent’s home. I leave work around 4pm and go to class on a restaurant-less campus until 9pm. The long drive home is made without any stops so I can utilize every extra minute on homework and sleep.
Don’t you just love the weekends? I know I do. I get to halfway relax, get some much-needed sleep, and eat.
Friday nights are the best. It’s payday, so the bank accounts are happy which by direct extension make me happy. My friends and I head out for pizza and wine, wings and beer, or sushi and sake (I hate sake). Saturday mornings are generally spent at Annie’s Cafe where we recount Friday night’s adventures and enjoy the morning. Sunday is when I’ll actually cook breakfast. In case you were curious – I’m pretty good at it too.
The only times I feel bad about my eating habits are when my friends go out of their way to cook for me. I’ll be sitting at my desk doing homework when the door is nearly beaten down. In will walk Miss Tron or some other cook, and will tell me that dinner is ready. I feel horrible. Why should someone have to go out of their way to feed me? Are my eating habits that childish and crazy? Don’t answer that.
While I eat my sympathy dinner (which by the way is always exquisite), I half-heartedly resolve to start cooking more, but that resolution lasts until I have to wash the plate I just used. Yes, I hate dishes that much. On the bright side, I try to repay the sympathetic Miss Tron by buying her favorite beer.
Luckily for me all the horrible fast food calories are offset by my dinner-less existence, so I’m still in high-school shape. One of my fears about losing my single hood is the “happy weight” (insert sarcasm). Even with my active money-draining membership, I hate and avoid the gym.
I’m really starting to realize how weird I am. I’m also surprised there are people who still are my friends. But then maybe they’re just waiting for me to keel over so that they can inherit my fortune or lack thereof.