Ironically, I like me. I like the dinners I prepare. The cookies I bake. The crafts I create. When finished, I feel satisfied. Content. A normal job well done.
Then the mail arrives. The front page picture of my magazine, mocking me, with it's super-glittery, oh-so-fancy, perfectly frosted, seemingly inedible snowmen cookies.
I glance toward the jar of freshly baked, non-amazing chocolate chip cookies. My heart sinks. And the memory of my husband's smiling, chocolate-covered face disappears with the turning of the first page.
As I dig deeper into the crisp new periodical, I begin to feel unworthy. Along with an incredible urge to drive to the store so that I may collect all the necessary items in which to conjure up the fanciful confections. Because doesn't every man want a wife that can fill a plate full of sweetly-laced overindulgences?
As I stand in my kitchen, I'm covered in frosting and defeat. Burnt smoke swirls into my nostrils, causing them to sting. Looking at my cookies, I can see that they mostly resemble a strangely shaped snow-monster rather than an impeccably accurate snowman. The recent distant memory of a chocolate-covered husband slowly emerges from the recesses of my mind.
This causes the sticky fog to lift and I begin to wonder where I am and how blue frosting got in my ear.
I glance toward the jar filled with the less-extravagant cookies and pull one out. I sit down next to a cozy husband. The evidence of a chocolaty-pleased palette sits crumbled on his shirt. And I take a healthy bite.
The homemade flavor rushes throughout my mouth. I think to myself, that's one amazingly delicious cookie.
I feel satisfied. Content. A normal job well done.
Because I am me.
And I was made to be that way.
P.S. Snow-monsters taste
just as yummy as snowmen.