Fish Tacos and Other Signs Something Is Wrong

An investigation into cooking, exercise, and why the boys considered a welfare check.

Readers, I cooked last night.

I KNOW.

I do not know what happened either. One minute I was placing a Walmart order because I needed a few things, and the next I was standing in my kitchen mixing coleslaw and putting fish into the air fryer like some kind of functioning adult with meal-prep intentions.

Frankly, it was unsettling.

Let’s start at the beginning, where all good stories start and where most of my questionable decisions can usually be traced.

My Monday morning did not begin particularly well. I mean, it was Monday, so expectations were already buried somewhere beneath the floorboards. My alarm went off at my usual 3:50 a.m., although I did not actually get out of bed until 4:30.

DO NOT JUDGE ME, READERS.

The snooze button and I are in a deeply committed relationship. We have built something together. There is history there.

Then Craig decided to call me at 5 a.m. with his chipper little attitude. Do I know why he was so energetic that early in the morning? No, I do not. The man is unwell. There is no other reasonable explanation for someone being cheerful before the sun has even clocked in for work.

I put him on speaker, set the phone down, and quietly questioned why I had committed myself to a man who thinks waking up at 4:30 a.m. to go for a jog is a perfectly acceptable life choice.

A jog. At 4:30 in the morning. Nobody is chasing him. There is no emergency. He is doing this voluntarily.

Anyway, that set the emotional tone for the day. But somewhere between going to work, completing my ten-hour shift, surviving the commute, and finally leaving Kingman, I decided I was going to return to the Rainbow Sanctuary and cook dinner.

Now, I’ll be honest with you, Readers, because I am nothing if not honest around here, even when the truth makes me look deeply unreasonable. I started taking GLP-1 medication back in September. I was on it for about four months and lost twenty pounds. Then I stopped taking it, as I do with most things, because something happened and I immediately decided it was probably the medication and I was dying.

Was there scientific proof?

No.

Was there medical evidence?

Also no.

Did that stop me from pointing an accusing finger at the medication like it had personally betrayed me?

Absolutely not.

We can also blame Bestie and his constant reminders that nobody knows the long-term effects of these medications and that I am basically a walking science experiment.

Look, the man gets into your head. Trust me. There is something about Bestie that makes you believe every word he says, even when you know he is being dramatic. If that man told me I needed to jump off the London Bridge tomorrow or the world would end, I would probably ask what time we were leaving and whether I needed to pack snacks.

I know. I should probably seek professional help. But that man has had a powerful hold over me for more than twenty years, Readers. Always has. Always will. We have accepted it.

Anyway, back to my story. So, I lost twenty pounds and have only gained about five of them back, which honestly is not terrible. But I would still like to lose another twenty pounds, and I would also like to stop the slow upward creep before my jeans begin filing formal complaints.

I do not necessarily want to restart the GLP-1 medication if I can avoid it, so I am attempting to build some kind of food and exercise routine that fits into my chaotic schedule, my two-hour daily commute, and my absolute lack of desire to spend my evenings chopping seventeen vegetables.

Hence, the fish tacos.

They seemed easy enough. I already had tortillas, and the fish could go directly into the air fryer, which is the only kitchen appliance I currently trust. I could have bought premade coleslaw. In fact, I almost did. But then I looked at the ingredients and thought, “This seems easy enough to make myself.” Readers, that thought should have frightened me. Instead, I bought the ingredients.

I put the fish and corn into the air fryer. I mixed the coleslaw. I cut the corn off the cob and added it to the coleslaw. Then, to make matters worse, the recipe said I needed to let the coleslaw sit for ten minutes. So I decided to go for a walk.

I KNOW.

WHO AM I?

I do not know.

When I came back from my walk, I assembled the tacos. Then I ate them. And they were actually good. Not “good considering Sarah made them” good. Actually good. I was stunned. The kitchen remained standing. Nothing caught fire. Nobody needed medical assistance. Gordon Ramsay did not appear in my apartment to call me an idiot.

It was a complete success.

At some point during all of this, I told the boys what was happening. They immediately became suspicious and asked whether they needed to perform a welfare check.

Rude.

Absolutely rude.

I cook one dinner and take one walk, and suddenly everyone thinks I have been replaced by a more responsible woman wearing my skin. Honestly, understandable, but still rude.

Anyway, we shall see how long this newfound wellness journey lasts. I do not have especially high hopes because I know myself. This could be a genuine lifestyle change, or it could be a four-day phase before I return to eating something from the freezer while standing over the kitchen sink.

But I made a food menu for the week. Yes, Readers. I opened my calendar and wrote down what I plan to eat every day this week. Who gave me this level of confidence?

Do not worry. My frozen meals are still on the schedule. I am not stupid. I know there will be at least one day this week when I arrive home completely dead inside and refuse to do anything more complicated than remove plastic film and press three buttons on the microwave.

That is fine. We are setting realistic goals around here. I am trying, and that, Readers, is progress. Especially for someone who loudly proclaimed just one month ago that she would never cook again for the rest of her life.

Also, in case you are interested in how this thrilling culinary saga continued, tonight I stopped at Floyd’s in Kingman and bought barbecue to go with the leftover coleslaw. I had to stop there anyway to buy a gift card for my boss’s birthday, so naturally I used this as an opportunity to acquire dinner. Efficiency.

And yes, I know this meal was not technically homemade. I did not smoke the meat myself. I did not raise the cow. I did not churn butter beneath the Arizona moon. But it was not fast food, and it was not a frozen television dinner. That makes two nights in a row.

Two.

At this rate, Craig and Bestie may need to begin preparing for the possibility that I have entered my wellness era.

Do not get too excited.

There is still plenty of time for me to ruin it.