Flirt with Cream Cheese?!

The Day My To-Do List Tried to Seduce My Cream Cheese

(and Other Acts of Badass Selfcare)

I was mid-schmear—bagel in left hand, cream cheese in right—when my to-do list slithered across the counter like a smug snake in a bullet journal.

“Look at you all yummy AND healthy,” it purred, eyeing the swirl I’d sculpted. “You should do that more often. I think you should add it to the morning routine: mindful schmearing.”

I was so dreamy that I almost got my pen, but I caught the trap “Absolutely not,” I told it, like a woman who refuses to put a cage on joy. “This schmear is sacred spontaneity.”

The to-do list blinked. Lists don’t understand freedom. They understand sub-bullets.

I took a bite so indecently slow it should’ve required a privacy screen. The kitchen clock blushed. Somewhere a recipe podcast lost signal.

“Fine,” the list sulked. “Then at least write it down so you can cross it off.”

“Nope,” I said, licking the spoon like it owed me flowers. “Pleasure doesn’t have to prove itself.”

That’s when the applesauce—innocent, cinnamon-freckled, minding its own cozy business—cleared its throat. “If anyone asks, I’m a snack, not a KPI.”

“Exactly,” I told the applesauce, who clearly understood me on a soul level.

Meanwhile, the chair across the room gave me a look. You know the one. The “come sit on me like you mean it” look. So I did. I indulged with ceremony, as if I were my own guest of honor. My ass exhaled with satisfaction.

The mirror on the wall caught it all and had the audacity to wink.“Hi,” I said to my reflection, “you’re the reason this kitchen is suddenly a romance novel.”

The broom, never one to be left out, leaned in like a gossipy aunt. “Are we flirting with cream cheese now?”

“Yes,” I said. “It’s called solo-mance. We are romancing the ordinary.”

The broom nodded, a little starstruck. “I always knew you had main-character energy.”

My phone buzzed with a reminder: Crush the day. I turned it to Do Not Disturb and whispered back,

“I’d rather kiss the day.”

Here’s the thing no one tells you when you’re busy being a Responsible Human™: desire wilts under obligation but blooms under attention. The soft kind. The “I see you, I’m not rushing you, stay as long as you like” kind.

So I gave my attention to everything that had been waiting:

• The stretch at the base of my skull that said, tilt me.

• The hips whispering, a slow circle would be nice.

• The lungs bargaining for a sigh that took up real estate.

I put on a song with a heartbeat and danced the kitchen into a low-lit cathedral. My breath led. My body followed. The spoon cheered us on, small and ecstatic, like it had finally found its calling as an altar bell.

My to-do list watched from the corner, clutching its venomous pearls. Eventually it softened. Even lists can be taught.

“Okay,” it admitted, “maybe not everything needs a checkbox.”

“Correct,” I said, pressing a kiss to the edge of the counter because gratitude is flirty like that. “Some things are for aliveness only.”

By the time I finished, the bagel was gone, the applesauce wore a satisfied smirk, and my reflection looked like she’d just remembered herself—cheeks a little pink, shoulders a little lower, eyes a lot more here.

I picked up the list and wrote one thing:

1. Be a badass.(And then, very rebelliously, I did not cross it off.)

Because the truth is simple and a little scandalous: you don’t need more discipline to feel good—you need more devotion. Devotion to the tiny, shimmering moments that refuse to be monetized. Devotion to a pace that lets the soul catch up. Devotion to pleasure that answers to no one, not even your planner.

So if you need a ritual to begin (or begin again), try this:

• Lick the spoon.

• Flirt with your reflection.

• Declare desire as sacred.

And when your to-do list tries to turn your joy into homework, smile sweetly and say, “Not today, darling. I’m busy being alive.”

Badass takeaway:You don’t have to add cream cheese and applesauce to your daily routine. You only have to remember that your body is a temple, not a factory—and pleasure is how you turn the lights on.

See you in the kitchen cathedral;)

Bring your hips. Leave your checkboxes at the door.