It’s after dinner and Vanessa Carlton’s “A Thousand Miles” is humming from my Mac desktop speakers and I’m looking at the tiny clock in the corner of my screen trying to determine the appropriate time for my after dinner snack.
Snacks are very important to me lately. About as important as a Pup-Peroni stick to an untrained, hyperactive Shih Tzu.
They are really all I’ve got, I tell myself every evening as I methodically shake 1 tablespoon of chocolate chips over my three-cup bowl of Skinnypop white cheddar popcorn.
I’m kind of exaggerating with the word every because Aaron makes the snack most nights but tonight he’s working late so it’s just me at the helm.
I clock the time on my computer screen. 7:03 PM. An hour till showtime.
Then, it’s about four minutes of uninterrupted bliss as I shovel that bowl into my mouth while watching re-runs of Summer House in the dark, in bed.
That popcorn is sacred to me, because a few months ago, it was a bottle of wine.
Wine was my evening ritual, the night cap to end my day, my reward for “getting through.”
But that reward was slowly stealing my life.
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