I’m sitting alone in my apartment. It’s Sunday night. Too late to be productive, too early to sleep, and I’m too hungry to do either. A flash of insight reveals my immediate fate: dumplings.
I don’t know where the gods of culinary inspiration sent it from, but the thought instantly grows roots. As they wrap around my stomach, squeezing it ever tighter, I message some friends to see if anyone wants to go.
One said he was out of town. Another on a date. Some didn’t reply and one already ate. With “no”s piling up faster than even the speediest cook could fold and fry the delicious dough bags, I began to think.
“Maybe, I should just stay in.”
“I still have food at home.”
“It’s cold out anyway.”
But then, another observation — not sent by a god but my gut — hit me. It took some mental debating, but, eventually, I snapped out of it.
“Screw it. I’m getting dumplings.”
I got dressed, walked to the restaurant, went inside, sat down, ordered, and, within a few minutes, I was munching on a dozen of a Chinese delicacy called wonton. The owner even gave me a free mango pudding for dessert. Score!
I won this round, but the conversation that had to happen earlier in my head for me to do so was just one of…
