Shopping for Diversions

Tonight I went to the grocery store. If that's not the most enthralling sentence that will ever grace this fair blog, then I just don't know. I went to, of course, buy something for my dinner, but also to distract my sad little lonely heart with an activity and a lavish meal (see time spent in ice cream aisle, then frantic move to produce aisle in fear of "single girl alone with her ice cream tub" syndrome).

So, while I was at the store, a few funny things happened. One, while I was in the cookie aisle (this was before making my way to the ice cream) I noticed a guy in a jogging outfit carefully putting bag after bag of Pepperidge Farm Milanos into his cart. He must have had 5 packages in there--oh yeah, All Varieties. What could I feel for this man but admiration? I've always believed that the Only good reason to exercise is to increase the percentage of junk food your body can absorb before it starts storing fat to pad you through the apocalypse or your favorite sitcom marathon--whichever comes first. Way to go, Jogger Man, for wearing this ideal proudly on your nylon short-shorts. And good thinking getting the elastic waistband.

Secondly, I had to admire Jogger Man's nerve. I'm always way too self-conscious to ever let myself veer into the waters of the openly ironic. Openly ironic being anything that I can imagine a chubby, 8th grade bully teasing me for doing. Example: I hate wearing clothes I bought at a store back to that same store--even if its months later. Or the day I realized I had coordinated my handbag with cats on it (meant only in retro sense) with my shirt with cats on it (meant only in a retro sense) and was forwarding a cat-themed email to a friend. While petting my 17 cats. Point being: I feel my attire places certain boundaries on my behavior. I fold like a cheap deck of cards to imaginary expectations. This is clearly not an issue for Jogger Man. He bounds through boundaries...puns...etc.



While all this hilarity was going on, I have to say I was enjoying a pretty snazzy soundtrack. Cher, REO Speedwagon--if I had memories of doing lines of coke off mirrors, or killing a 24-pack with my frat bros, these songs would tug at the old ticker. Me being young, innocent, and all, nostalgia wafted down to me in the form of Madonna's Vogue. What a song! Pure greatness. But, something about hearing:

"Ladies with an attitude
Fellows that were in the mood
Don't just stand there, let's get to it
Strike a pose, there's nothing to it

Vogue, vogue"

...while squeezing fuji apples for bruises just doesn't make you feel all sexy and fun. "You're a superstar, yes, that's what you are, you know it." This fancy guy next to me was having a hell of a time controlling his four blonde monster-children as they ran around the fruit screaming and tearing up the plastic bags. He had the weariest, "How did I get here?" look, and I thought, Oh, buddy, I bet you miss those lines of coke.



So, what about the rest of the story? This blog post is about all of, maybe, 90 seconds out of my night, after all. Reader, I went back home, made my little dinner, and enjoyed the time to myself. Somehow, being afraid of spending another night with myself in my apartment is always way worse than the actual reality. I usually end up having fun and feeling pretty good. Insert pithy insight into perception vs. reality, and loving our own damn lives.

While I really don't want to make a habit of bemoaning the single life while also propping up my fabulous self-contained girlhood, I feel it necessary to wring that meaning out of at least this one entry. Because it can be easy to forget, because a lot of people try to convince us otherwise, because I haven't developed the power to control the future, and because I don't want to make a malady out of a good thing in the hopes of an imaginary remedy. So, in short--C'mon girls, there's nothing to it.