three week 2015 health initiative has been successful.
I just ran out of chicken and my inventory is running low on veggies, bottled water and lemons, so I head to the store.
I park the car, grab my bags (because people in southern California look at you like you’re the problem if you don’t bring your own bags) and walk into the market.
Even though I only have to get a few things, I grab a giant cart.
I need to lean on it.
After checking to see if all four wheels move in line with each other, I grab some “organic” grapes and lemons. Of course I pay extra for organic, but secretly think, “the trick may be on me.”
I slowly inch my way into cheese. What if I have people over and I need
a meat and cheese platter? I already have the grapes.
I pick up some salami. I think about smelling it, but you can’t smell it and toss it back into the display, so I commit.
I add the A-listers: bottled water and chicken breasts.
Despite the one-note charcuterie platter, the contents of my cart seem rather depressing.
I become inspired to search for new recipes on my phone, so I pull my cart over to an area that seems desolate.
After finding myself on Facebook, I see one of my friends just posted a bikini selfie and I think, “I should at least put the cheese back.”
Wait, I need recipe ideas.
So I go back to my phone and Google: easy recipes, no prep time.
Response: “simple chocolate chip cookies.”
Thank God I’m in spices, because as a matter of fact, I do need vanilla.
On my way out of the baking aisle, I hear my inner voice:
“what if I have a PMS-induced nervous breakdown and cookie dough is the only thing that will solve the rage within?”
I make my way to the front of the store to see which line is shortest, simultaneously counting the items in my cart to see if I qualify for the express lane.
Had I not blacked out in the baking aisle…
As I stand in line, I see a fitness magazine, “New Year, New You. 15 Ways to get Healthy.”
The shame and guilt pour over me as I unload my cart, so I look at the checker straight in the eye, bat my lying eyelashes and and say, “I’m baking cookies for my boyfriend.”
He looks at my messy top bun, assesses my sweat pants and says, “do you want to use your club card?”
He believed me.