I’d like to think that when no one is watching, I morph into a model of productivity and discipline and for the most part, that is a true statement. I am a mission on a mission, and I can burn the pants off a project all by myself.
When no one is watching, I think I meet my truest self. The choices I make in those moments define my character far more than the image I present to others.
But then there’s this:
When I’m alone, I can eat a whole box of prepared Kraft Dinner in one sitting. Once I get the urge—and I have to be pretty hungry to fulfill that destiny—it’s as if the world just drops away and there’s just me, a pot of boiling water, macaroni, real butter because I think margarine is despicable at all times, two per cent milk and a package of dry powdered cheese sauce.
I set everything out ahead of time, measured, so as not to waste a precious minute when it’s time to combine it all. It’s a true ceremony of anticipation, and it has to be mixed lickety split when the pasta is cooked so that the masterpiece is piping hot at serving time.
Don’t forget the favourite bowl, favourite spoon and a heavy dose of black pepper on top. I think I would win a contest for mixing KD in record time. I’m a pro. That’s how I roll. I enjoy it to the last noodle and then immediately regret having eaten it all and swear off KD for months. And I usually also confirm out loud, “I will never do that again.” This ritual happens with me every time.
Grandson No. 3 was HUGE on KD while he was growing up, and when I would ask him each year what he’d like for Christmas or his birthday, he’d say my two favourite binge words: “Kraft Dinner.”
Sometimes I would buy the strapping boy 20 boxes and wrap each one individually and then put them all in a bigger box. I used a permanent marker to number the boxes and put his name on each one so his siblings wouldn’t claim them.
Grandson No. 3 has grown into a tall and feisty wonder, and a little part of me thinks he’s been helped along by all that whey, turmeric and annatto in the KD that helped build the blocks that make that young man stand taller than his mother and his grandmother.
I talk to myself. All the time. I have discussions and arguments and stuff. I never believed the old wives’ tale that swirled around us as kids purporting that talking to yourself was akin to a mental illness. I am the first to admit that while I prefer the company of my favourite humans, I am hardly ever lonely when without them as I coach myself through life with my own voice.
When I’m by myself, I often stand outside just before sunrise and look at the great star rising in the east when its ambient light is most beneficial to the soul. My ritual includes a bow as well. There’s a small window for this most lovely event before my corneas are in danger, but early morning sun gazing has many health positives, and it’s a great way to start the day.
When the house is empty of other humans, I have conversations with Earl the cat as if he is my therapist. Sometimes I get the flat stare that means “you really should not have eaten that whole box of KD,” and sometimes a lick on the end of my nose that means “you’re okay.”
I sing songs that I do not know the words to with complete confidence and just make the lyrics up. Sometimes I will stand at the kitchen sink and eat my supper just to get it over with. Besides, calories don’t count when you do that, right?
I rehearse imaginary conversations where I finally think of the perfect comeback some three weeks after the fact. I fix stuff around here much to my amazement, and then fist pump the air. I laugh, sing, I raid the fridge, I talk to myself and I’ve been known to solve world problems from my favourite reading chair while talking to the ceiling fan, and no one ever knows because when they walk in I am just sitting there reading a book out loud.
In a nutshell, when I am alone, I am the star of my own one-person variety show, and that’s not just another story.
