As the idea of a Thanksgiving mostly alone in my Brooklyn apartment started to become more of a reality, I wondered what it might look like.
Eating alone is nothing new for me. Living solo for almost three years now, I’m used to being alone in the kitchen. I’m grateful I only have to grocery shop for one and only have myself to blame when the cheddar/grape/salted almond trifecta runs dry. But of course I’m a little apprehensive of the holiday season alone.
I imagined the moment when I opened a can of jellied cranberry sauce, loosened the mold with the swirl of a knife around the can’s perimeter, and finally, plopped it onto one of my hand-me-down plates next to my Tofurky, would look positively pathetic.
I get it. The ‘optics’ of a can of cranberry sauce are questionable. It slides out in a slurp. It’s shaped like the industrial can it comes in. It jiggles. But admittedly I’m a huge fan of the stuff and as I prepare my meal for one at the end of an unstable year, I’m looking forward to it’s reliable taste and shape.
I’m grateful for my independence, my cozy apartment, my health, and most importantly, my cranberry sauce, but I know Thursday will be one of those ‘Talking Heads nights’ that leave me wondering “How did I get here?” An existential crisis over stuffing. How come I’m not the beautiful wife in the beautiful house?
Those moments for me always seem to take place in the kitchen. Doing some mundane task like standing over a pot of boiling water or frying an egg, my wet head most likely wrapped up in a Turbie Twist. The lights flicker. I accidentally break the yolk.
My somber, kitchen moments used to leave me wondering if I was in the early stages of becoming Martha. Remember poor Martha from The Americans?
**The Americans spoiler alerts ahead**
I hated and loved Martha. She was unapologetically sexual, had a pretty cool job, but god, she was alone. Always confined to her apartment waiting for her sham of a husband Clark to make his rare appearance, fuck the shit out of her, and then leave to return to his ‘real’ wife and life. Ugh. Been there, done that, sister.
Also, she was obsessed with Clark. An obsession that eventually shipped her off to Russia leaving her to grocery shop for one, and oh god, eat dinner alone under poor lighting.
Okay, it’s not so much the baked potatoes and cheap apartment fixtures I worry about but I do worry about my own obsessive qualities.
I’m very good at becoming obsessive. Especially when I fall for someone. But admitting that isn’t always easy. Being labeled ‘obsessed’ rarely sounds positive and as you may have realized reading a blog about me, I'm also pretty busy being obsessed with myself.
But similar to the can of cranberry sauce, even though obsessions don’t necessarily look good from the outside, I don’t think we should write them off completely. There are benefits to a healthy obsession. Obsessions come with motivation, learning, a blind excitement towards something you’re always ready to talk about. Obsessions are work in addition to the work you already do.
My obsession with myself has provided a new and improved relationship with myself. Sure I have my sad, somber kitchen moments, but I know how to build myself back up. I know how to appreciate who I am and what I do have. I’m not the beautiful wife in the beautiful house but I’m also definitely not the metaphorical Martha being exiled to the Motherland.
I think we would all have better outcomes if we didn’t trade in an obsession for ourselves for an obsession for someone else. Let’s instead demand both. Because finding someone who worships us as much as we worship ourselves (and our cans of cranberry sauce), is truly something to be thankful about.