I was in the cookie aisle and there were these spongy marshmallowy things with a dark chocolate coat. And this is where it got obscene: They had a layer of orange marmalade with a biscotti bottom and a swirl, and possibly other stuff. Too much to take in all in at once. The box alone looked like it was designed by the Gucci porn department.
I could not meet its gaze. It was staring at me like—let's do this—and I was like a dog with my ears pinned back and eyes glued to the wall.
I surveyed the adjacent confections with the air of a man engaged in rational deliberation. I was not. I knew what I wanted. The whole aisle knew. It’s 90% women in Italian grocery stores — men don’t really food shop here — and I could feel them watching. An American man of uncertain years, alone, dilating in the cookie aisle. A nature documentary. How desperate is he? Is he just looking for a dry accompaniment to his Melatonin tea, or is he buried in dolci and Virgin River marathons crying himself to sleep at night.
So I walked away. And ended up at the back corner of the store where they keep the butter and yogurt.
I bought prune yogurt with bifidus. An act of undiluted self hatred that happened almost subconsciously. I didn’t even know what bifidus was and I'm lactose intolerant.
Too ashamed to walk back down the cookie aisle on my way to checkout I slunk down the water and toilet paper aisle. Couldn’t risk one of them catching a glimpse of my loneliness, my nearly unchecked desire. I paid, I left, I came home with something old people eat when they can’t go to the bathroom.
As I drifted off to sleep listening to a lecture series on Aristotle the guy was talking about the philosopher's idea of the perfect life. Balance. Yadayadayada. And then he mentioned his student, Alexander of Macedon. Conquered the known world. Dead at 32. That guy would have eaten them standing in the aisle. It really put my lack of resolve into focus. And then the bifidus hit.