Welcome To Whole Foods, Do You Need An Enema?

The first time I went to Whole Foods, I was heartbroken.  Graham and I had been dating for a little less than a year, and while out drinking one night, he suddenly left the bar.  Just left.  I was outside talking to a friend and someone came to tell me my boyfriend had walked out.  I drove around and managed to find him walking home, whereupon he told me he couldn’t take it anymore and accused me of trying to run him over with my car.

Obviously I have never tried to run anyone over with my car.  It’s just that very rarely, Graham could drink to the point of total delusion.  I’ve never been fortunate enough to reach this zenith of drunkenness, so like blackouts and alcohol-induced comas, drunk delusion is something I will probably never get to experience.  If you ask him now, he’ll tell you that I very quickly pulled up to the sidewalk he was standing on, and if I had continued driving instead of stopping (you know, if I lost my mind and decided to plow the Lumina through someone’s living room at 2am), I might have run him over.

Anyway.

We were broken up for about a month.  Something like that.  I should have been more aware of the time passing for posterity’s sake (“I know you don’t want to load the dishwasher, but remember when you broke up with me for exactly a month and four days?!”), but I was so lost in this ridiculous sadness that nothing much occurred to me.  I didn’t eat.  I hardly slept, and when I did, I didn’t dream.  If it hadn’t been for work, I never would have showered or left the house.  I wasn’t consciously refusing to be a functioning person, these things just didn’t enter my brain at all.  The only thing I could think about day after day was how sad I felt.  I woke up, I was sad.  I went to bed, I was sad.  I went for a drive and started sobbing at a stoplight because I remembered that Graham and his ex-girlfriend had been together for longer than he and I had been.  I was a fucking mess.  The only two benefits to this first-time heartbreak were a) I got skinny and b) people bought me drinks.  Everything else was gross.

Graham broke up with me in early January.  Because I had finally figured out that doing things would help to distract me from my pit o’ sadness, I decided to leave my hovel and use the Whole Foods gift card my father had given me for Christmas.

Carrie Bradshaw goes shoe shopping when she’s stressed; I shop for food.  Even if I’m depressed and not eating, the act of cooking is something, and being around fancy food in cool packages stops me from (once again!) crying in public

So I went to Whole Foods.  As far as I know, the nearest Whole Foods is in Brentwood.  You’d think that its location in a sprawling suburban strip mall would make the interior sort of gigantic, but it’s actually a very cramped space, especially in the winter when everyone’s wearing coats.  There’s a lot of waiting to get by, sucking it in so someone else can pass, and saying “pardon me” if you want to get your hands on the cheese samples.  Well, at least there is on my part.  Say what you will about St. Louis City, but I’m from here and I have way better manners than anyone at Whole Foods.*

What’s with you rich people?  Don’t you get enough of a boner off of being wealthy and wearing performance fleece?  Is it really so difficult to notice the other people in the world, specifically the people who have been standing there waiting for you to get the motherfuck out of the way while you scrutinize the bags of organic spinach?  Or maybe not run over my fucking foot with your fucking cart and then refuse to acknowledge the situation, let alone apologize.  Are you so jacked up on your own privilege that you can’t tell your asshole kids to calm the fuck down and not do cartwheels in public while you block an entire aisle reaching for boxed pancake mix (and seriously, how mentally deficient can you be if you can’t make your own damn pancakes)?

Whole Foods, I love your cheese and your seafood counter and your Vosges chocolate selection, but your customers are real dickbags.  I only hope that when I someday win $200 million (after taxes) in the lottery and therefore think nothing of dropping $60 on a shallow basketful of items, I will at least remember that I was not raised by rude, angry bears.

So, woman with awful child who nearly ran me over and man who bitched about the checkout line since all he had was a gigantic carton of psyllium husk fiber (dude, like I really need to think about poop when I look at you), tonight you got lucky.  I had stuff to buy and other places to go.  I had to hurry up and get back to the City where the real shitheads carry guns.  But next time, I’m shoving some of those cheese samples up your asses.

*Employees excepted.  They are all very nice.

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About erineph

I'm Erin. I have tattoos and more than one cat. I am an office drone, a music writer, and an erstwhile bartender. I am a cook in the bedroom and a whore in the kitchen. Things I enjoy include but are not limited to zombies, burritos, Cthulhu, Kurt Vonnegut, Keith Richards, accordions, perfumery, and wearing fat pants in the privacy of my own home.
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