Eat the damn potatoes

This whole not sleeping thing is getting a tad old. 

It’s getting worse, even.

I’m currently sitting at my kitchen table scarfing down a butter-covered potato and onion concoction I threw together. 

Aaaand the milk I’m drinking out of a classy green mug just went down the wrong pipe and I had a coughing fit. So much for not waking up my housemates. 

But I lay in bed just a minute ago thinking I’m craving those potatoes I made earlier. I really want more. Like, really want more. 

I tried to silence my thoughts but they’re just as stubborn as the rest of me. 

Me, in my kitchen with its cupboards full of groceries. The potatoes are simmering in the background.

You have a kitchen at your disposal now, Emily, and a cupboard full of groceries. 

I read something recently that said, “Ordering a pizza at 1 a.m. on a Tuesday isn’t going to kill you.”

It’s Thursday. I’m eating potatoes instead of pizza. Sure, they’re smothered in butter, but there are onions, too! That makes them healthy, right? 

I never used to care about that shit, but my one housemate counts calories while I shovel my dinner down my throat. Then I have seconds. Later on I have thirds. Then a bowl of ice cream. And probably a chocolate bar to top it all off. 

Then I feel guilty, but I eat these potatoes at 1:15 a.m. on a Thursday, anyway.

My weekend ritual is to come home, heat up a plate identical to my carb-heavy dinner hours earlier and then eat it in bed while drinking as much water as my stomach can hold. 

I worry about my weight sometimes, but not enough to give up these late, late night “snacks” or that bowl of ice cream I had earlier. Sometimes I’m not exactly happy with what the scale says when I step on it. My coach freshman year weighed us and made me that way. I gained ten pounds in muscle weight from the weight room and haven’t lost it since. 

We don’t have a scale in our townhouse.

I think women worry too much.

Stop counting calories. Just eat the damn potatoes.

Especially if they’re covered in butter.

Now my full stomach and I must catch some Zs.

Because “buoyant” is a cool word

I wrote this post on my friend’s and my shared blog after my first day as a single lady.

I was worried. Scared. Lonely.

It’s been nearly a month.

Uh… it’s been awesome.

No joke. Yes, this is Emily typing. No, I’m not on something right now. I’m serious.

I am finally –– finally –– living the college life. I haven’t left campus to see a boyfriend, I haven’t been home since midterm break. I’m here. I’m going to live.

I flirt with whomever I want. Sometimes it’s reciprocated. Sometimes I get rejected. But I don’t even care. For the first time in five years, I don’t have a crush running my life.

“I’m all out of pick-up lines,” I said bluntly to a guy two weekends ago. So I grabbed his hand and led him to the dance floor. Two other girls intercepted him.

But I didn’t even care. 

I danced with my girlfriends, instead.

I’m happy. Buoyant, even.

I’m doing things for me instead of worrying about someone else.

It’s about damn time.