I slide into my side of booth, the tattered vinyl seat catching on my pants, and settle into a funky egg joint for breakfast. For an A.M. writer like me, I’m not often out of the house for breakfast, let alone dressed before noon, but today is special. Today is our anniversary and where else would a couple of ex-physicists start the day than surrounded by tiny Dr. Who phonebooths painted into the swirling heavens filled with planets, stars, galaxies and glowing Grays. Even the fundament below our feet is a rendered universe where, at its outer edge (toward the bathrooms), the psychedelic dream splashed across polished (and very clean) concrete, morphs into a yellow brick road (because, why not?), leading our traveler back to a vintage arcade of pinball and “Asteroid.”
Yes, we dined at “The Cosmic Omelet.” It was my husband’s idea. And that’s why I married him.
The food was awesome. A throwback diner vibe with mounds of homemade corned beef hash, eggs, butter, biscuits and gravy, butter, hashbrowns, butter, grits, cream, and butter. The coffee was so dark even heavy cream couldn’t change its color and the service? Stellar as the scrambled-hard eggs were still falling from the cooks spatula onto the plates when our food arrived at light speed. And everything tasted amazing, a nostalgic sense of my childhood, grandma’s cooking, and the sustenance meant for hard laborers in the fields, maybe salt mines – work I decidedly would not be performing on our special day.
After pecking around at my plate, and my husband’s, and sliding most of my corned beef over to him, I polish off the deep bowl of grits and sag back against the red vinyl back rest, secretly wishing there was a grease-mopping little sponge I could swallow – much like those desiccant packets in the powdered milk – to suck up the entire sweet crude oil well I had just ingested. But, surprise, from this angle, there, tucked in the shadow of my grits bowl, are two MORE pats of butter. Laughing, I blurt, “Who in hell needs more butter than that?”
But that’s my whole point: why stop now? When we have the basics, we’re good. When we’re feeling more confident, we flout our fear of scarcity by indulging as though we are surrounded by abundance even when we are not (the holidays, in a nutshell – because that’s all that’s left – because we ate the nut, too). And when we really want to pamper ourselves, both because we feel bad or we feel so good we’re celebrating, we ramp up to a runaway consumption to the level of decadence. Root word: decay.
That exquisite dessert, that giant diamond, that beautiful new car, that bigger apartment because, damn it all, we’ve earned it, we deserve it, we should have it. Right here, right now, you only live once, right?
See, we CAN keep two disparate realities in our heads at the same time, because “right now” is a split-second. It is a NOT a life. It’s not a lifetime. “Right now” is a blip, an impulse, while a life well-lived defines the entirety of our time in this world. And yet we choose to strap our future selves’ finances, damage our livers, slug our pancreas, poison our lungs, and vent our frustrations all in the name of treating ourselves.
I know very well that life gets real stinkin’ thick and indulgence feels like gulping a big breath in between the crushing blows and crashing waves, but trust me, clean, calm, fresh air will do you better in the short and long run rather than a delicious pull off that fine cigar. Don’t spend, don’t flail, don’t even wiggle. Sit still. A small moment to take stock, plan, find clarity, feel peace, and fix a salad, is nothing short of a love letter to your future self – as well as the current you.
So, before you splurge with your wallet, your time, and your stomach, just ask yourself: Am I treating myself by treating myself badly? I think all of us will be shocked by the answer. Oh, and the treat goes both ways, as in righteous, yet unrealistic resolutions fulfill the same function by self-inflicted failure eroding our confidence perhaps more than our body. Just a thought to go with my wishes for a healthy and sustainable lifestyle for you in the New Year. Be ACTUALLY good to yourselves.
Please pick up A Devil in the Donations, the first in The Admiral Inn Mystery and Adventure series and tuck into your cozy reading nook for the next 9 books while I feverishly type out #11. Thanks!
AJ Alanson Author 
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