Frozen: Existential crisis in the checkout lane

I put four items on the conveyer belt: a bag of potato chips, a twelve-pack of domestic beer, a box of ice cream bars, and a frozen pepperoni pizza.

As my selections progressed toward the clerk, their complete lack of nutritional value began to dawn on me. Everything was highly processed and packed with salt, fat, sugar, lactose, and gluten.

I grew self-conscious. Would the other shoppers assume I always ate like a stoned college student? That I was a slave to the most primal of dietary urges?

“I have blueberries at home!” I wanted to assure them. “And almond milk. And kale! Lots of kale!”

But then a second wave of shame hit me. This “food” wasn’t just unhealthy. It was also terribly unsophisticated. It marked me as someone with neither taste nor discretion.

Where were the Fuji apples and arugula? The Greek yogurt and basmati rice? The balsamic vinegar? Where was the goat cheese?

Who the hell was I?

But the worst of my identity crisis was still to come.

It was, significantly, a Friday evening, so everyone under ninety was preparing for a big night out. The stylish couple behind me had red wine and brie in their basket. Three bros held cases of cheap beer. A pair of hipsters used the self-checkout for their hard cider and artisan popcorn.

It began to feel very publicly obvious that the frozen pizza would be my dinner that Friday evening. And since it wasn’t large enough for two, it wouldn’t take a genius to deduce that I would be eating said frozen pizza all by my lonesome.

It called out to the other shoppers: “Count yourselves as lucky because this guy’s pathetic plan for tonight involves a solitary carb and sugar binge fueled by self-loathing and despair!”

I felt a sudden compulsion to announce over the intercom, “Yes, I’m single, folks, but I don’t mind. And if you must know, I intend to pair this frozen pizza with a kale salad! While watching a documentary on education reform! And if I happen to eat a second ice cream bar, how’s that your business?!”

“Paper or plastic?” the clerk asked, waking me from my daydream.

“Plastic. Not a healthy thing in the bunch,” I apologized.

The clerk shrugged. “You know, sometimes you just gotta live a little,” she said, smiling warmly.

“Maybe you’re right,” I said.

“And, anyway, I hear all that organic stuff gives you cancer.”

Normally, I’d contradict such ignorance, but instead I was strangely comforted.

“What’s ‘healthy’ one day is ‘bad for you’ the next. Nobody really knows anything,” she said with a wink.

I thanked her, took my bags, and stepped through the automatic doors. It was dusk, and the cloud-streaked sky over Oleander Drive was magic with red and pinks and purples. Before walking through the crowded lot to my car, I stopped for a while and took it all in.

Because sometimes you just gotta live a little.

To view more of Mark Weber's work, click here: www.markweberart.blogspot.com