To order or to not

This is my first blog and mind you I did NOT sign up for this, so forgive me for my lack of enthusiasm (I blame my English professor). But in truth, the assignment is really not that bad. I don’t have to write well, on paper nor do I have the pressure to write something I’m not one bit interested in. I thought a lot about what I’d write, and I settled on the topic of dilemmas. If you’re expecting something deep and meaningful, you’ll be disappointed. Anyway, last night I had a dilemma: to order food or to not.

Points to be noted:

1. I’m extremely indecisive.

2. My hormones were acting up and Mother Nature decided to torture me yet again this month.

3. I’m BROKE AS HELL.

4. You can never go wrong with chilli cheese fries.

Now, if this were a 90s movie, this is the part where the girl stares dramatically at the ceiling fan while some soft indie-rock track plays in the background. She’s lying on her bed, phone dangerously close to her face, one sock on, one sock off, contemplating life as if the fate of the universe depends on her next move. That girl is me. The ceiling fan was spinning too fast, which felt aggressive. The room smelled vaguely like instant noodles and bad financial decisions. And my stomach, oh my stomach was staging a protest.

Dilemmas, I’ve decided, don’t come announced. They don’t knock politely. They kick the door down at 11:47 p.m. when you’re tired, emotional, and absolutely not in the tax bracket to be making impulsive food purchases. A normal person would’ve thought, You’re broke. Eat what’s at home. But I’m not a normal person. I’m someone who opens a food delivery app “just to look.” Which is the biggest lie of the 21st century.

Scrolling through food apps when you’re broke is a form of self-harm. You see things you cannot have. Things that were never meant for you. Burgers dripping with sauce, pizzas with the audacity to be extra cheesy, desserts that cost more than your remaining bank balance. And yet, there I was, scrolling like a Victorian child staring into a bakery window.

My brain attempted logic. You have food at home.
Yes, but do I have chilli cheese fries at home? No. Case closed.

My hormones, meanwhile, were like an evil little council sitting in my head, chanting, Treat yourself. Treat yourself. Life is hard. You deserve happiness. And honestly? They were very persuasive. If hormones had LinkedIn profiles, mine would say “Expert Manipulator.”

I tried to distract myself. I watched half an episode of a show I’ve already seen three times. Didn’t work. I drank water. Didn’t work. I lay on my side and accepted defeat for about thirty seconds before my stomach growled loud enough to qualify as a jump scare.

This is when the negotiation phase began.

Okay, I told myself, if you order, it has to be something small.
Chilli cheese fries are technically just potatoes. Potatoes are vegetables. This is practically health food.

I checked my bank balance again, as if staring at it harder would magically increase the number. It did not. Numbers are cruel like that. They stay where they are. Unmoved by your struggles. Unimpressed by your cravings.

In a 90s movie, this is where the narrator would crack a joke about capitalism or adulthood. Something like, No one tells you growing up is just choosing between food and financial stability over and over again. And cue audience laughter, because pain is funny when it’s relatable.

I hovered over the “Place Order” button like it was a red wire I wasn’t supposed to cut. My finger trembled. Dramatic? Yes. Necessary? Also yes. This was not just food. This was a moral crossroads. On one side: responsibility, discipline, future me who might want to buy shampoo. On the other: chilli cheese fries, warm, comforting, and very much living in the present.

Future me has had enough chances.

I tried to rationalize again.
It’s been a long day.
I woke up tired. That counts.
You’re on your period.
That alone should qualify me for government-funded fries.
It’s self-care.
Therapy is expensive. Fries are cheaper.

Somewhere between excuse number twelve and thirteen, I realized I was smiling. That’s the thing about dilemmas they reveal who you are when no one’s watching. And apparently, I’m someone who will absolutely betray her budget for fried potatoes covered in melted cheese.

I placed the order.

Instant regret followed, of course. That’s tradition. I stared at the confirmation screen like, Wow. You really did that. But then came the waiting. The anticipation. The little map showing the delivery person moving closer, like a modern-day knight on a scooter.

By the time the food arrived, I had made peace with my choices. I opened the container, and there they were. Golden. Messy. Smelling like happiness and poor impulse control. The first bite was everything. Crispy, spicy, cheesy proof that sometimes the wrong decision feels very, very right.

And in that moment, sitting on my bed at midnight, eating chilli cheese fries with zero shame, I realized something profound. Or semi-profound. Or at least blog-worthy.

Dilemmas don’t always need solutions. Sometimes they just need acceptance. Sometimes you don’t choose the smart option you choose the one that gets you through the night. Life isn’t always about growth or discipline or character development. Sometimes it’s about fries.

So no, this blog isn’t deep. It doesn’t have a life lesson neatly wrapped in wisdom. It’s just a girl, a phone, a nearly empty bank account, and a decision she’d probably make again. And honestly? I think that’s very on brand for me.

If this were a 90s movie, this is where the girl would look at the camera, shrug, and say something witty before the screen fades to black. So I’ll leave you with this: adulthood is a series of dilemmas, and I will continue to lose most of them to food, to comfort, and to my own dramatic inner monologue. And I’m okay with that.