I find myself at my most delusional when I decide to buy you. We both know it’s true; purchasing you is the height of misplaced hope. There you are, all vibrant and crisp, while I’m just a hangry mess wandering the produce aisle, desperately seeking guidance for the week’s meals. Because let’s face it, I can’t even handle it this week—just like every other week.
I’d prefer to be doing literally anything else at this moment. And I mean anything. Yet, I grab you, convinced that a side salad pairs perfectly with everything. I’ll figure out the rest of the meals as I navigate through the store in a panic, grappling with the reality that we need to eat multiple times a day, every day. And somehow, I’m the one responsible for this culinary madness.
If I ever hit the jackpot, the first thing I’d buy is a personal assistant—preferably a competent one who can handle my salad shopping, and I’d pay him a woman’s wage just for the irony. Picture me, like some character from a sitcom, excited about this dream of delicious misandry, motivating me to grind a little harder in the meantime.
But here I am, stuck at the grocery store, eyeing the Dole bags and the generic brands, side-eyeing the organic options while internally screaming, “I don’t care about your politics!” My debit card doesn’t have time for your high ideals.
And don’t even get me started on the self-checkout disaster. Watching people fumble around, staring blankly at the screen while the machine is literally a scale—every time I see it, a little piece of my soul dies. The self-checkout lane is a slow torture chamber for those who overestimate their tech skills.
This fluorescent-lit purgatory, filled with the sounds of Billy Ocean, is where I’m left with an overpriced bag of salad that I’ll undoubtedly forget about until it becomes a science experiment in my crisper drawer. I can almost picture it now: I’ll reach in, face scrunched in disgust, holding a bag of green goo while muttering “ew, gross” as I toss it in the trash.
I started with good intentions, of course. But in the end, it doesn’t matter. We will cross paths again, dear salad bag. I’ll buy you next week or the week after that, and we’ll engage in our usual “Will I eat you, or won’t I?” dance until you morph into a grotesque version of your former self. But hey, who knows? Maybe I’ll finally remember to toss in some dressing, croutons, and parmesan. But let’s be real—this is my life we’re talking about.
Oh, and while we’re on the topic of planning, if you’re looking for insights into home insemination, you should check out this article on donor insemination—it’s full of great info. And if you want to dive deeper into the ins and outs of the process, this post might be just what you need. Also, if you’re exploring ways to make this journey easier, Make a Mom has valuable resources for you.
In summary, the cycle of buying a bag of lettuce continues, fueled by fleeting optimism and the harsh reality of my culinary incompetence. Until next time, lettuce.