Today was a good day. I woke up early and went skiing. It the last day at Bluewood, and there were lots of people there. The skiing was decent, but not perfect. It got a little warm and the sun melted a lot of snow, making it really heavy. We would hit a sunny patch and slow down to the point of almost falling over. In all, though, we had lots of good runs; flying through the trees, going over jumps, speeding down racing hills. It was great.
After I got home, my fridge looked a little empty. I was able to pull together enough ingredients for a pizza, and it turned out fantastic. I used alfredo sauce on half, marinara on the other half, chicken pieces, and sliced portobello mushrooms (why, you ask, do I have portobello mushrooms when I claim to have an empty refrigerator? *shrug*). As for cheese, all I had was a bit of moldy cheddar, but I cut off the mold and was able to spread the rest out over the pizza. I enjoyed my pizza with a good Chateau St. Michelle Riesling.
I have been avoiding the part of my story that is relevant to the title, though. It happened when I was spreading the dough. I got a pan, lined it with oregano infused olive oil, and began spreading the dough into the pan. I spent far longer than I should have trying to spread it out over the whole space. I kept spreading it too thin, and it would develop holes in the middle. I’d pinch it back together, but the dough just wasn’t enough for the pan. Eventually, I realized that it was arbitrary that the dough should fit the pan. It didn’t have to. I just needed to have some dough in the pan spread out enough for me to put on ingredients. Then I thought about how I’m spreading myself so thin just so that I can fill every hour of the day with an activity. It’s not right. There’s not enough of me. I should fill enough of my life to make me happy and make the filled part better quality.