I find myself at my most delusional when I decide to buy you. We both recognize this reality. Your presence in my cart signifies the height of misplaced optimism.
Here you are, vibrant and crisp, while I stand here, hungry and overwhelmed in the produce section, desperately wishing for someone to steer my meal-planning ship. This week, like every other week, I feel utterly incapable.
Honestly, I’d rather be doing anything else right now. And I mean anything. So, I toss you into my basket, convinced that a side salad will pair nicely with everything, all while trying to navigate the aisles in a panic about the incessant need to eat every single day, multiple times a day. Apparently, I’m the one responsible for this.
If I ever come into a bit of money, the first thing I’ll acquire is a male assistant. I’d pay him a fair wage, while he carts home my bags of salad that will most likely end up uneaten.
I’m like Sally in a diner, pounding the table in front of Harry, reveling in this ironic fantasy of misandry. It inspires me to push through the chaos of reality.
But here I am, at the grocery store, scrutinizing the Dole bags and generic options, casting dubious glances at the organic varieties as if they’re too self-important. I acknowledge your political stance, but frankly, I couldn’t care less. My debit card doesn’t have time for your high ideals.
Nor does it have patience for the self-checkout disasters. Those who confidently stroll up to the machines with no clue about how they work make me cringe. Each blank stare into the screen chips away at my sanity. Self-checkout is a place where people’s misplaced confidence in their intelligence slowly tortures my very being.
This fluorescent-lit purgatory, accompanied by the sounds of Billy Ocean, is where I find myself surrounded by bags of salad I’ll likely forget in the crisper drawer until I face the grim reality of cleaning it out.
I’ll inevitably overlook you. It’s practically guaranteed. My crisper drawers are opaque, and those romaine hearts will decompose into a sludge that I’ll reluctantly fish out, grimacing as I toss the green goo into the trash.
I’ll tell myself I had good intentions. As if that matters.
It doesn’t.
So, dear salad greens, we shall meet again soon. Whether it’s next week or the one after, we will engage in a “Will I, or Won’t I?” dance until you transform into something unrecognizable, or perhaps, just perhaps, I’ll remember you and feel a sense of accomplishment as I drizzle some dressing, toss in croutons, and sprinkle on parmesan. But let’s be real—this is me we’re discussing. My relationship with produce is a constant cycle of delusion.
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In summary, I grapple with my misguided optimism each time I purchase a bag of salad. The cycle of hopeful intentions and inevitable neglect continues, but perhaps one day I’ll break the habit and truly enjoy the greens.