Four Cans of Tuna

Opening four cans of tuna— mundane. Home alone, feeding myself a humble meal and not feeling sad about it at all. Rather, feeling content and easy.

Opening four cans of tuna, however mundane and humble, being by myself in the house all day was not lonely. It felt like a quiet strength and confidence. I know how to feed myself. I know how to cook lots of dishes with lots of ingredients and lots of steps. Those arenʻt my favorite. And I didnʻt have all the ingredients I would normally put in a tuna salad sandwich, and I paused not a bit for it.

My hands opened these four cans of tuna, my fingers manipulated the can opener and I tried not to splash too much tuna water onto the counter. I wondered if I would just squeeze the can to express the water or if I would use a sieve, and decided a sieve would be one more dish Iʻd have to wash.

These four cans of tuna were overkill for a meal for one. For me. Iʻd forgotten that my son was going out for dinner, and had no idea when my daughter would be home. But if Iʻm gonna make something, Iʻm gonna make enough for leftovers, is my mindset. Gotta make extra for a late-night snack, tomorrowʻs lunch.

Making these four cans of tuna felt like agency. It felt like I never anticipated being where I am today, divorced for the second time and single and alone on a Saturday evening, making tuna sandwiches for one and feeling at ease. Feeling so easy. This feeling is so easy. Nothing so easy in all the world than feeding myself, deciding for myself, making all these micro-decisions that belong to me and to only me and matter to only me.

These four cans of tuna. This singular, insignificant meal. Tuna sandwiches scream lunch, donʻt they? Itʻs a childʻs lunch, isnʻt it? “May you reject control and claim freedom,” read yeterdayʻs oracle card, and I did. “Fully appreciate the privilege of being at liberty to choose,” and I did. I have agency. The life Iʻm living in this exact moment is one I choose. I decided I could imagine a different life than the one I had. I am living for me, and this life is mine. The life Iʻm living is mine.

Iʻve chosen this life whereby I can make myself a fucking tuna sandwich with American cheese on whole wheat bread on a Saturday evening all alone. I can sit on the couch and watch episode after episode after episode of Criminal Minds AND play music AND play Word Cookies all at the same time. This life is mine and I have cultivated it. Make no mistake, I have earned it and fashioned it to be thus.

I ate more tuna sandwiches today while I made my lentil stew from scratch using my Instant Pot. While I ran my new air fryer for the first time. While I bake my chicken breasts in the oven and rinse my tomatoes and watch more Criminal Minds. I feel easy and content and I donʻt always feel that way about the life I have built for myself because I donʻt always feel like I deserve it. Iʻve a long history of making myself small, of not having dreams or desires or needs or boundaries, and so claiming this life doesnʻt always feel safe. But it does today. Right now, this moment, I choose.