I’ve been to the grocery store three times this week, each time swearing that this is the last trip, that these groceries are enough to last until I leave Emporia on Friday. I must have bought at least five packages of frozen food, which I have sworn off over and over because they have more salt than the Atlantic and various other components that will probably give me cancer, but I’m continually lured back by the promise of instant sweet-and-sour chicken.

Oh well.

One of the reasons I love living alone is because I can be very possessive of my food. I don’t share food, underwear or driving privileges. If you think it’s cute to snatch a bite of my mashed potatoes while I’m not looking, it’s not. I keep a fork-sharpener in my purse for just such reasons.

The one downside of never sharing is the absence of people to blame when half my batch of brownies go mysteriously missing.

Leaving Emporia probably means I’ll live 10 years longer, because I’m moving away from what I call the most heart-attack-adjacent corner in town. It takes less than 30 seconds of walking to reach a Chinese restaurant, liquor store, donut shop, frozen yogurt and pizza place. Be still, my heart (maybe forever if you eat the way I did when I first moved here).

Then there are the times I eat my feelings.  Who doesn’t? Bad Chinese and a healthy dose of Gilmore Girls can cure any breakup or other emotional slump. Sure, roommates can also help you through rough patches. But I like to think Chef Boyardee and Little Caesar’s also have strong, supportive presences in my apartment. Ben and Jerry are my most frequent male visitors.

I don’t think anyone should feel guilty about using food to feel better every now and then. I mean, it’s better than crack or whiskey, or crack-whiskey.

Cooking reaffirms my natural role as a homemaker. No matter how successful I am at my career or how independent I am from men, I can’t suppress my instinctive need to take out my curlers, put on an apron and make a hearty lasagna for the whole … well there’s just me. There’s nothing like driving home from a hard day at work, knowing that a warm, nutritious meal is being prepared by … oh wait.

It really is weirdly satisfying cook while wearing a nice dress. Seriously, I kind of want curlers and an apron. Hello, June Cleever!

I am immune from health guilt or judgement! Every cookie I eat only make me stronger. But after my doctor said I need to watch my blood sugar, I started being more careful. There are still times when I throw caution to the winds, cook up a big plate of french fries, and gobble it down without a second thought.These moments of weakness occur roughly three-seven times a week. I’m working on it.

I’m not sure which conclusion to draw, except I really like food. And I’m not sharing.