Omelets and Cappuccinos

It was the tastiest omelet. Not just in how it was made, nor in the quality of ingredients - I’ve personally eaten much better omelets, and honestly, I get the shivers from the crunchy, overcooked brown part of the egg. 

I had finally decided to order it. I laid the narrow menu down on the round, black granite tabletop and pressed the service button. Turning towards the waitress, I placed my request, making sure it came with more milk than espresso. It was done; and not to satisfy my desire, but out of frustration with myself for being paralyzed in confusion. And so I sat in more frustration, knowing that when that tiny cup would be set before me I would feel even worse. It was an object of guilt and frustration, changing the way I saw myself; selfish, fat, and worthless.

But then something clicked. I saw the situation from a different side and realized the distorting habit that kept me from life and pleasure. I looked at the iconic drink with loving eyes. It was no longer fattening venom covering my body in self-hatred, nor was it a torment of financial guilt. The sugary dark chocolate didn’t make me feel gross, but beautiful and pampered. I was worth every cent spent, and more.

Different afternoons, different cafés, and completely different orders, but the hidden thoughts at work were the same. That little cappuccino was everything to me that day. And I savored myself more than the taste of the omelete. As much as I enjoyed them, the miracle wasn’t in the fine chocolate, nor was it in the cottage cheese that filled my eggs. It’s what happened inside of me. I allowed myself to enjoy them. I saw my worth; I felt lovely, grown, and in charge of who I was. I drank beauty that day.