Grocery Store

Those forbidden aisles of temptation are calling me again. I know I should resist, but they’re lit so beautifully, and it is a Saturday night, so I’ll let myself indulge. To some, going to a grocery store is innocent- even boring- but in my case, it’s worse than a sex addict entering a porno store. The sugars! The calories! How promising those vibrant plastic wrappers are. To me, browsing through the rows of food is better than the consumption of the product itself. I can safely admire Hostess from a distance, noting its nutritional value, (or lack thereof,) with a respectful diligence.
Some items leave me gaping for fifteen minutes, furiously debating with myself whether the temporary satisfaction of actually eating what I’m looking at would be worth the repercussions. Only pretending is harmless.
The game soon gets frustrating. It always ends with me walking out the door with a bag of lettuce and bag of apples. Is there any greater waste of time than someone afraid of food foraging through the cereal aisle of Coops? If you find one let me know; perhaps I’ll pick up that hobby as well. I don’t even let myself enter the desert section. Its vibes are too powerful. The wistful dreaming becomes a nightmare of suffocating dark chocolate, and I can’t run to escape in a public facility.
Grocery stores are indecent, with their polished tile floors and shiny glass windows that open like whores to any helpless victim standing there. My obsession with them is even worse. I may leave without the chocolate rice cake, but it’s a hollow victory. County Market and I both know how tempted I was, and how much of my life I spent pundering its rich, sixty-calorie goodness. No matter what I do, the food wins every time. Worst of all is the fact that I will inevitabley return to the torture chamber. It may be days, perhaps even a week, but the super market waits paitently, blaring its “Open 24 Hours” sign mockingly.