Am I being generous — or just used?

W

hen did pizza become a wealthy person’s food? It’s such a tease; Pizza Palace is right near my office, and it just smells so good.

Plus, I promised Shifra that if she picked up Avigail and Yonason from the neighbor while I was at my interminably long meeting, I’d bring home pizza for supper.

I squint at the price on the wall and then back out of the store before I’m tempted to just do the easy thing and swipe for a pie that I can’t afford.

I’ll just run to the grocery next door, buy a frozen pie and a bag of fries, and call it a day. I’ll splurge on some chocolate milk or ice cream as an added treat. It will still come out cheaper than buying “real” pizza.

Well, I’m not gonna lie; the grocery store is just as overwhelming as the pizza store. Is it me? Thank You, Hashem, for Zichron Dovid’s ordering, where I get most of my groceries at cost or close to it, or else my fridge and pantry would be very, very empty at these prices. But also, the selection is so tempting, it’s better I don’t even look. Caramel popcorn, Oreo popcorn, blueberry popcorn? Walk away, Mindy, walk away.

Am I missing some fundamental part of adulthood, a compass that lets you know when it’s time to splurge on small expenses, and when to hold back? Does everyone else know these things innately?

The Betty Crocker is making that popping noise that means it’s ready for me to throw the pizza in, which is good, because I’m pretty sure my children have begun eating the Magna-Tiles. And mine aren’t even authentic; they’re a knockoff from Temu.

Then again, apparently so is my pizza.

“Maaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa,” Shifra grouched as I walked in. “You said you were getting pizza! I wanted Pizza Palace! Not that yucky thin crust.”

I held up my shopping bag defensively. “Thanks for watching everyone,” I said mildly. “And you’ll be happy to know that I bought the double crust this time.”

“I’m not happy,” she muttered. “I wanted Pizza Palace. I had to work so hard picking everyone up and watching them and all I wanted was real pizza.”

Oh, the mom guilt. It’s immediate and all-encompassing, and I wonder how traumatizing it would be for my children if I sat down and cried.

I also wanted Pizza Palace. Then I wouldn’t be rushing around the kitchen sticking fries in the toaster and slicing vegetables while still in my sheitel and ballet flats, instead of tichel and slippers.

I look at the clock. It’s Zichron Dovid day, and I need to tell Avrumi that I told Chani Feinberg we’d pick up her order for her tonight — 6:04 p.m. So he should be on his way.

“Sure,” my husband says when I ask.