Grub

I recently finished reading the emotional roller coaster of Alyssa Shelasky that is Apron Anxiety. Emphasis on "finished" because at first I was not sure I would.

I didn't think that I liked her, as a character. It's hard to stay the course when you are not invested in the protagonist.

Of course, I questioned why I didn't like her. It comes down to: I'm jealous. She's lived in New York; she's lived in Los Angeles. Same as I. But she's really lived it.

Then there's the dark period of insecurity, incessant crying and drama... OMG why are you revolving around a man, deriving every sense of happiness from him? You're your own person!

I silently scream inside. And judge.

Oh, right. I've done it.

Quite a sobering moment of realization of why her flaws irked me so. We dislike in others what we despite most in ourselves.

She comes out on top, though. Successful. Dignity intact. Whole.

I, on the other hand, am having a bad case of midlife crisis. In the age of a global pandemic and historic civil unrest and activism, I am doing... nothing. 'Cept for the occasional nominal donation. I feel more inert than ever. Paralyzed.

Speaking of paralyzed, I have been reflecting on why I have scarcely been able to cook anything more complicated than a simple noodle soup. Slicing and dicing seems daunting now when in the past it used to soothe me. Can't seem to deal with the chaos, the smells... Sensory issues kicked up a few notches.

I am not a seasoned cook who can whip up something based on what happens to be on hand. I need to plan and shop accordingly. Planning and shopping was the fun part. And now is not the best time to leisurely browse the aisles, not to mention you may not find an ingredient. And it is not advisable to store hop - not exactly an essential activity.

But even before Shelter in Place, it's been a few years... I blame it on the job. I am mentally drained, my soul sucked dry. There is a numbness that is at a pathetic level.

Oh, here we go again. My ex-therapist would not be pleased with the self-loathing.

And thus it hasn't been easy to be on social media where it seems everyone's inner chef has surfaced, cooking and baking up a storm. Everyday I am bombarded by images of their culinary adventures, reminders of what a loser I am.

Since the stay-at-home order, I have maybe seen two posts along the lines of: "It's okay to be doing nothing more than surviving". Is this what I am doing, surviving? Or merely subsisting, forever bound by demons that I cannot even name?

I read recently an article in either the New York Times Magazine or The New Yorker that happiness over one's life span is a U-shaped diagram. Obviously when we are children we are fancy-free and happiness level rates high. As we age, happiness takes a dip while, as they say, life happens. So it would make sense that middle age is the worst part of one's emotional journey. Retirees tend to report much higher degrees of happiness than their middle-aged counterparts.

Ha! So it IS the job!

I hope the paradigm holds true so there is hope yet.