Eating with my hands

Goody-two-shoes no more.

I.

Two years ago, I decided to become a germaphobe. Things that didn’t bother me before—sitting on my bed with “outside clothes” on, applying makeup with unwashed hands, touching my phone between bites of a sandwich—were suddenly sacrilege. I feared dirty denim tainting my white cotton sheets. I scrubbed my hands before washing my face, and after contact with an unknown surface or object or person.

I convinced myself I was avoiding seasonal illness due to my new healthy habits. For the first time, I survived a winter without developing a sore throat or the kind of congestion that plugs up all pathways for air. Then I got the flu.

On Saturday morning, I went rock climbing, watched high school boys cling onto microscopic crimps with three fingers, and felt sorry for myself. I hadn’t gone to the gym in a week, working too late to muster the energy to wake up at 6am and take the train over. I was afraid I might never improve past the point I was at.

My chalk-covered hands opened wide to grab onto large, amoeba-like shapes. They narrowed to fit on slim ledges. When my fingertips started to peek through, I dipped back into my drawstring bag, applying the crumbly white dust in a smooth, even layer.

I couldn’t stop thinking about other things. I scrolled on my phone. An Instagram story informed me that a baker I had been following since the pandemic was selling copies of her cookbook five blocks away. It must be a sign, I thought, it’s time to go.

I unstrapped my rubber-tipped shoes, put on my sneakers, and left through the motion-sensor clear gates. I walked downtown to Elbow Bread. The room of white-brick and warm wood was intimate—of the eight people standing inside, my coat brushed against two of them. I made eye contact with the baker, but I felt too timid to go up to her and admit that I knew who she was.

At the register, I ordered a cinnamon-sugar-coated sweet potato pretzel. After three seconds of hesitation…“AND A BOOK, PLEASE.”

The woman behind the counter handed me the pretzel in a gusseted brown bag. Then she passed the book over the glass pastry case of glistening challah buns and sesame-dotted bialys and passionfruit choux split in half, the insides piped with cream. The book was thick, but lighter than I anticipated.

Tanya re-emerged from the kitchen, “YOU GOT A BOOK!”

I grinned. “YES!”

She signed the inside cover, we chatted, and I felt buoyant.

On my walk back home, I tore into the plush, sweet, dense pretzel and let the sugar crystals melt on my tongue before chewing. I realized I hadn’t washed my hands since climbing the rock wall, touching the same holds as hundreds of other people. Did it matter? Was this freedom? I reached into the bag for another bite.

II.

I like receiving handwritten cards on my birthday. I appreciate when I invite someone over for dinner and they bring dessert or wine. I notice when someone does or does not say thank you. I remember when someone is unfriendly to me, even in passing, even if they didn’t mean to be. To my detriment, I can hold a grudge for a very long time. I know disdain is not an attractive emotion.

Criticism is often a reflection of insecurity. When I judge someone for spending too much time online, skipping their workout, requesting five dollars on Venmo, or neglecting their skincare, I am really concerned with my own tech-reliance, discipline, stinginess, and vanity.

Lately, I’ve been irritated with other people’s boredom. I hear things like…

“IF I HAD MORE TIME outside of work, I WOULDN’T KNOW WHAT TO DO WITH MYSELF!”

“At the end of a long day, the only thing I have energy for is to LIE DOWN AND SCROLL.”

“Besides HANGING OUT, I don’t know where to find fulfillment in my life.”

I like to think of people as kaleidoscopes of quirks, obsessions, rituals, ideas, emotions, and dreams. I’m never bored—there are always a dozen competing things I want to do in my pockets of free time. I fantasize about my past (what choices could I have made differently?) and my future (when I wake up in 10 years, what will I see?) so often that it feels like my life is overlapping on itself.

For example:

At dinner with my family, I asked, “DO YOU REMEMBER WHEN WE WERE DRIVING TO THE AIRPORT to tour colleges in California, but then we decided to TURN AROUND AND CANCEL OUR FLIGHTS?” I had a vivid image in my mind of disembarking the car in the middle of the street, and lugging our suitcases back home. They had vague recollections of booking and cancelling travel, but to my specific memory, my dad said:

“ARDEN, I THINK THAT WAS A DREAM.”

I’m troubled by how fast time is moving, as I approach new milestones (A year of post-grad! A quarter century of being alive!) without concrete accomplishments to show for them (there are no more end-of-year evaluations). In my worst moments, I appease my anxiety by comparing myself to others, on-and-off-line: I’m less addicted to social media, I cook food at home, I’m careful with money, I read books and get eight hours of sleep.

But measuring my life through a balance of hours or dollars or pages is a pretty sad way to move through the world. What am I missing out on by going to bed early and eating the same four meals on rotation? Discipline is good, until it means the boundaries of your life are so rigid there are no openings for serendipity to slip in.

Incremental superiority is never as rewarding as true empathy. Instead of, “How can there be nothing you want to spend your free time doing?” maybe I should ask, “Do you want to come with me to this tea ceremony? What if we walked the length of the west side?”

“Why can’t you get off your phone?” could become “What are you looking at?”

“Can I see?”

III.

I want to spend more time getting outside of my orbit, seeking the spiritual equivalents of eating a sweet potato pretzel with chalk-covered fingers. Thank God spring is approaching, the layers are coming off.

Thank you for reading, as always. I love you! Is that a weird thing to say?