The Millennial Girl And Whole Foods: A Love Story

The Millennial Girl And Whole Foods: A Love Story

In my “always public without any regard for social norms” opinion, there are two Deities in this world. The first is Andy Cohen because he literally is the Messiah. And after 13 years of Hebrew school, I know a fucking lot about Messiahs and their ability to cause immediate and extreme spiritual awakenings. The second is the overpriced, grass-fed heaven known as Whole Foods. Founded in the capital of “I’m the ‘Cool Girl,’” known as Austin, TX, Whole Foods and their high-end offspring have officially infiltrated white, suburban America faster than Molly and Pure Barre combined.

High-end grocery shopping for me and many of my upper-middle-class peers is Pure Nirvana. It’s our drug and our remedy. It’s therapy without having to talk to anyone. It’s heaven, caged in a mason jar, and topped with buckwheat noodles and probiotics as far as the eye can see.

For those of you who have yet to be saved, here’s what the experience is like:

You walk in. The wave of non-GMO GMOs hits you like last month’s bank statement. You stop, put your hands on the cart, close your eyes and take a deep breath. You wonder if this is what meditating feels like.

You enter the produce section. You place some ripe, but not too ripe bananas in your cart. You wonder what a group of bananas is called. You open your phone to Google it, but check Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, Snapchat, Pinterest and Bumble instead. You forget why you opened your phone in the first place and move on.

You see that organic peaches are on sale. You pick one up and begin to rub it against your shirt. You then remember that peaches don’t need to be shined and quickly throw the peach in your cart so no one notices your dipshit-ness.

You make your way to the kale. You pick out a good bunch and spend approximately three minutes trying to put it into the ribbed plastic bag. By the end of your endeavor, you feel physically and emotionally drained. “The struggle is so real,” you think.

You turn into the bulk foods section and see a hot dad helping his four-year-old son churn almond butter. Right when you’re thinking of better things he could be doing with his hands, a pre-pubescent boy taps you on the shoulder and asks you if you need help finding anything. You say no, but secretly wish him years of prolonged virginity for interrupting your fantasy.

You walk into the dairy section. You then remember your not eating dairy this week, and that the three boxes frozen Stouffer’s Mac & Cheese you drunkenly consumed last night were merely a mirage. You throw a $7 block dairy-free cheese into your cart and trudge onward, making sure your ponytail is perfectly pendulating at just the right speed.

You avoid the pasta aisle at all costs because carbs are basically the inferno. But then you remember a black-bean pasta recipe that one of your #BBGsisters shared on Instagram last week. You sift through your camera roll for the screenshot. While scrolling back in time, you mindlessly reminisce on your skinny days. You vow then and there to cut out alcohol for a year. You text everyone you know about your coming to Jesus moment. No one answers. “Fuck everyone,” you think. After 21 minutes, you find the screenshot.

You roam the aisles collecting ingredients for next 47 minutes. The last item on the list is the bee pollen garnish. You find your pre-pubescent worker friend and ask him where the bee pollen is. While he looks for it, you get giddier and giddier thinking about how good this Instagram is going to be. He then turns to you with his overly acned face and purple braces and says they’re out of bee pollen. You hold in a scream and kindly tell him “this would have never happened in Hillary’s America.”

You quickly head to the 15 items or less checkout line even though you clearly have over 100+ items in your cart by now. Without looking at the total, you sign on the dotted touchpad line, outwardly ignoring the checkout worker when he asks if you want to donate $1 to the Children’s Relief Fund.

You leave the Green Palace $759.82 poorer, but with a new sense of purpose. This isn’t goodbye, Whole Foods, it’s just see you later.

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