I forget but then remember
Sometimes, I forget that I'm an adult. I forget that, if I am sad and hungry, I can order whatever I want to eat, including ultra-spicy Indian food. I am not bound by the random, sad tidbits of food lingering in my empty pantry. Yes, I should make the economically-wise choice and mix that tuna with that can of diced tomatoes and spread it on the left-over, 4 strands of soba noodles. I should, but I don't have to. I wouldn't do it if my husband were here and not at work, so why should I do it to myself? Sometimes, I am important.
I also forget that I'm allowed to open a bottle of wine and have a glass while I work, even if it is a weekday. I don't have to stare at it and wish that I could have it. I'm allowed to drink without showing my ID to an invisible, parental bartender--especially if it is a school night.
It's nice when I remember that I can do these things. I'm glad I don't remember all of the time, but every so often, it's nice.