Bachelorhood, with cherry juice on top
I’m relinquishing my bachelorhood status — time to hand in my Green(Mould) Card and move on to the next stage of life, whatever that is.Struggling artiste, perhaps. Or political ideologue.
I’m relinquishing my bachelorhood status — time to hand in my Green (Mould) Card and move on to the next stage of life, whatever that is. Struggling artiste, perhaps. Or political ideologue.
Don’t get me wrong. I like the bachelor life — the hours are good and the benefits (e.g., reading entire Calvin and Hobbes collections on the toilet) help offset the crushing loneliness. The problem is that I don’t know how much longer I can deal with the diet.
Since my divorce, the food I’ve consumed in my apartment (daily takeout not included) has consisted of the following: Pre-sliced bread, pre-made meat pies, instant oatmeal, pre-made waffles, beans, cereal, tuna, sardines and one failed attempt at mac and cheese, which was more like elbow macaroni in orange water.
I fall into ruts often. I’ll decide that one food is going down pretty well — why mess with what’s working? — and suddenly it’s Tuna Can Tuesday, or Mini-Wheats Wednesday. And don’t even get me started on what I’ve been drinking. (Bachelorhood tip: A glass of maraschino cherry juice is a refreshing nightcap.)
Why don’t I just cook something? It’s a valid question, and I have a valid answer: I can’t. I step into the kitchen so rarely that I consider it uncharted territory. If I enter, the bacteria procreating on the dirty dishes all stop multiplying for a moment and look up to size up the stranger. When they determine that I am male with a takeout danish in my hand, they rate the hot-water-and-soap threat as ‘low,’ and go back to munching down on my beans from June 6.
And people ask me how I keep thin. I might have starved to death years ago if I hadn’t learned the important method of dropping in on friends at about 5:30 p.m. “Hi guys! I was just in the neighbourhood and — hey, something smells good. You know, I haven’t had a good home-cooked meal since, well, since the last time I was here. What? Me? Eat here? Tonight? Oh, I couldn’t possibly. But I will. Look: I brought my own plate!”
Unfortunately, this is only a stopgap solution, and my friends don’t seem to be home at 5:30 anymore. I need a long-term fix, which is why I’m prepared to move beyond bachelorhood and into the next stage of life, where there’s warm food and clean cutlery and, sometimes, I think, napkins.
To celebrate, I’d ask you all to raise a glass with me. Maraschino cherries are in the baking aisle.