Oh, heavenly congealed cranberry sauce stuck in a corrugated can, guess where I made the mistake of going 3 days before Thanksgiving? The worst place ever:
Innocently, I strolled into a Whole Foods located across the street from the law school where I mold young legal scholars’ minds. I wanted some lunch, and I had that $60.00 just burning a hole in my pocket, which was just enough for a (small) Whole Foods lunch. I thought, “What the hey! I’ll go get a salad with 87 different ingredients because, you know, I’m worth it.”
The minute I stepped inside I could tell something was amiss. First, there were no carts. It was 1:30 p.m. on a Monday. Where the free-range fudge were the carts? Once I rounded the corner, I saw them. They were all being pushed by the most psychotic of holiday shoppers.
It will take a long time to forget the women I saw going to second base with the sweet potatoes. Trying to find the perfect root? This lady was going to any lengths, and I am telling you, it was X-rated.
The produce section was mobbed, but I soldiered on, hoping for a few pockets of breathing room over by the prepared foods.
The grumpiest people I have ever seen were scattered among every aisle. An elderly couple squabbled over dinner rolls; a hipster dude lost his shizz over by the fish counter. My favorite part was the Brazilian woman who allowed her minor child (approximately 8 years old) to ride her scooter at full speed in the alcohol section. (I know she was Brazilian because she had fake boobs and a thick accent. Trust me. She was Brazilian.)
I got my salad after tussling with other shoppers who didn’t appreciate that I put my backpack and water bottle in a cart so my spine wouldn’t spontaneously snap from their weight. Yes, my cart was blocking fully 45% of the salad bar at all times, but did anyone really want to get at that edamame salad or the “detox” salad?
The cashier, whose name was allegedly Bibi, could not have been nicer. I appreciated her cheery greeting and 7 discreet inquiries about whether or not I wanted a bag. (“Yes, Bibi, I want a bag. It’s where I am going to stuff my carbon footprint when this is all over.” Is there anything more shameful that admitting you want a bag at Whole Foods?)
So, I vow to you that I am not stepping foot into Whole Foods, or any other grocery store, until the Thanksgiving super storm passes. I can’t take the crowds, the sexual energy in the produce section or the intra-family tensions.
And the scooters– I can’t take the scooters.
Please be careful out there, this is no time to be a hero.