Some people find God in church. I found mine next to the Bibigo Chicken and Vegetable Mini Wantons.
It was 9:13 p.m. on a Monday. I was wearing socks that looked like Swiss cheese by way of poor life choices and a hoodie I borrowed from my boyfriend before we moved out for summer—four days ago, exactly—not that I’m counting, except I am, obsessively, like it’s some kind of grief math. I wasn’t even supposed to be at Publix. I had gone in for almond milk for my coffee, but instead found myself scrolling through the BOGO list of the week in the Publix app in front of the freezer aisle.
There’s a moment—call it an epiphany or just low blood sugar—when you stare into a wall of frozen cauliflower gnocchi and ask yourself: Is this adulthood? Like, is this it? Just an endless loop of pretending to care about fibre content and being seduced by seasonal snacks with suspiciously cheerful fonts?
The freezer light flickered. So did my will to cook.
A woman next to me reached for a bag of PF Chang’s Orange Chicken. Our eyes met. It wasn’t love. It was mutual recognition—the kind that passes between two strangers who’ve both microwaved their dinner at 10:47 p.m. and just wanted to make it to Thursday.
Anyway, I didn’t get the almond milk. But I did leave with a clearer understanding of my mortality, the price of inflation, three bags of frozen dumplings, a scented candle called “Jasmine Patchouli,” and a $7 bag of ethically ambiguous trail mix. Capitalism is a hell of a drug.