Last Friday, I ate Dilly Deli in my parked car at the bottom of Ninth Street. Alone. It was fabulous.

You know that feeling when your three-day-old hair is resigned to a nasty knot on the top of your head, your smallest child cries unless held against your body by your fatigued right bicep, and you can’t stop unwrapping that dang “fun” size Halloween chocolate?

I call this feeling “crawly.” When I get to Stage 10 Crawly, I’m OUT. My husband can always tell, bless him.

The processed chocolate and Red 40 pulsing through my veins told me I needed greens. As soon as I could, I handed the reins over to my spouse and sped away to my favorite deli.

I suppose most people would return home with their coveted meal and eat it at the table, or at least standing over the kitchen counter. I can’t do that. At least not at this point in my life. My children are very much up in my business 24/7 and I couldn’t bear the thought of eating from this valley’s best salad bar behind a closed door on my bathroom floor.

I once listened to an episode from a podcast by one of my favorite celebrities (who shall remain nameless because I still adore her and can’t tarnish her name) where she mentioned how desperate it looks to be eating in your car. The entire conversation actually hurt my feelings.

Yeah, *insert celeb here,* sometimes as mothers and spouses and daughters we are desperate. We do questionable things for some peace and quiet.

Perhaps motherhood has slowly chipped away at my self pride — after all, I did go into Dilly Deli without drawing on my eyebrows first (thank you, postpartum hair loss). However, when offered reprieve from these desperate, “Stage 10 Crawly” moments, I hope we can find a way to recharge by following our yearnings with reckless abandon, critics be damned.

Just nothing illegal, k?

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