Salad-in-a-Bag

Last evening, while I was driving home from work, my friend Kim called. When I answered my phone, instead of saying something along the lines of "Hello," or "So you are alive," she said, "Tell me something funny."

It was that kind of day.

Now, my day wasn't really any better than Kim's, but she's easy to please and she finds most things I say funny. I know this because she has a big, bold laugh and she's always doing it in my ear. Quite frankly, it makes me inordinately happy. And it makes it easy to overlook the fact that she's, you know, laughing at my life.

So we chatted and laughed and commiserated and laughed and whined a little and laughed a little more. And then the conversation turned to our children and what they eat at their respective universities. Wait. I should clarify. We talked about what they eat at their respective universities completely outside of their meal plans. (And to clarify further, my daughter no longer has a meal plan, which is good, as she pretty much kicked it to the curb on Day One.)

In an attempt to justify his reason for regularly avoiding the (paid for) dining hall in favor of local eateries, Kim's son had the nerve to tell her that she has no idea what it's like to be forced to eat stuff you don't like. He said this to his mother. Who went to West Point. And then did a good long stint in the Army. You know, where they make you eat whatever slop they throw down in front of you.

Uh huh.

It did not go over well. 

I believe she used the F-word. 

(Don't quote me on the F-word thing. Especially if her mama is reading. Hi Mrs. Warren!).

Then the conversation turned to what I eat. I think I started out explaining how, when my daughter left for school and I was going to be living all alone for the first time ever in my life, I had grand plans that included experimenting in the kitchen, cook books, recipes, cookware, and all manner of healthy, fancy foods. 

Uh huh. 

Clearly I forgot something important.

I forgot that I don't like to cook. And I'm not very good at it. And I'm lazy. And I'm not fancy. 

(OK, so I forgot a few things.)

Right. Since the whole cooking thing didn't work out, I found out quickly that, left to my own devices, I eat like a toddler. No, that's not quite right (though if I'm honest, I'm as messy as a toddler). 

No, I actually eat more like a third grader who's been given $100 to spend at the grocery store. Think Kevin from Home Alone. 

The night before last? I had cereal and cookies for dinner. And I know you think I'm prone to hyperbole and I exaggerate (where 'exaggerate' = 'lie') for effect, but that is, in fact, what I had for dinner. Last night? I had a ham sandwich. It should also be noted that I had a ham sandwich for lunch yesterday. I might have a ham sandwich for lunch today, too. 

Now, I do cook sometimes. Last week I made baked ziti (which is basically just spaghetti and sauce thrown into a baking dish with a little shredded cheese on top and stuck in the oven. I call it ziti because I use fancy noodles [which are, interestingly, not even actual ziti noodles]. Shut up, it counts). I ate it for six days. Frankly, I'm not even sure it was still viable after the 5th day. Three weeks ago, I made a pot of vegetable soup. That was actually pretty healthy. The thing is, I don't know how to make soup for fewer than 300 people, so I had to eat it for as long as I could stand it. Eventually I threw it out (mostly because it was growing stuff I didn't actually put in the soup and the fridge was starting to smell). 

Here's the thing, though... when my daughter is home, I cook healthy meals, with vegetables and everything. But once she's on her way back to school? The menu is all Captain Crunch and knock-off Peanut Butter Tagalongs (trust me, with my habit and their prices, supporting the Girl Scouts is no more viable than 6-day old baked ziti).

 

Now, lest you think I'm completely pathetic (where 'completely pathetic' = well, 'completely pathetic'), I should state that I can only take so many carbs (and ham) before my body will rebel and crave salad. And as I expressed to Kim, I do love me some salad! Actually, now that I think about it, that's how our conversation moved from our kids' appalling eating habits to my appalling eating habits. Envious of students, who have salad bars for days in every dining hall, I said that if I could visit one daily - for free! - I'd be in heaven (I'd probably weigh a lot less, too). As I say, I love me some salad. But I really hate making it (all that shopping and washing and cutting and wilting... blech) and salad bars are expensive. So I buy that Salad-in-a-Bag stuff that's all the rage and so convenient (I'm not so much about the rage but I'm all about convenient). All you really need to do is throw in a few cherry tomatoes and cucumbers and WA-LA! Salad. Mind you, I don't even bother with the tomatoes and cucumbers, because that requires planning and forethought and stuff. So I pretty much just dump the whole bag of lettuce or kale (or a fancy combination of the two) into a big bowl, throw in whatever seeds and berries come in the baggie tucked in with the green stuff, squeeze on a little dressing, and I'm good. 

I know you're judging me. I don't blame you. I judge me all the time. And lord have mercy, you should see how hard my cat judges me. I'm used to it. But here's the deal, y'all: being an adult is exhausting. Truly, no one tells you that. I mean, I remember my mom complaining about being tired all the time, but I thought she was just, you know, complaining (I loved my mom but she had that whole martyr thing going on, but good). But the fact is, pretty much my entire adult life has been spent worn slap out.

So, yeah. Salad-in-a-Bag. That's what my life has become. That and knock-off Peanut Butter Tagalongs (sorry Girl Scouts). 

XO,