Yesterday I ordered almost $200 worth of groceries online in a fit on frustration with the fifteen minutes post-work-pre-yoga I have to run errands, a fact that would not pose any problems were I a sensible adult who used her weekends to purchase things like, oh…food and toothpaste and toilet paper and laundry detergent. But alas, spent weekend 1) buying boots, 2) with parents, 3) drunk, 4) rolling eyes, 5) gossiping, 6) eating, and 7) sitting on couch, and did not take care of sensible, necessary tasks like grocery shopping (yet, found time to plug new-found ‘shift in priorities’ to friends, smugly tooting new yoga-doing horn and talking about how “I’m just not that interested in going out these days, not when I could stay at home and cook a nice meal.” What is Sanskrit for big fat lying a-hole?). At about 4pm on Monday, the task of figuring out how to buy food for dinner AND walk the dog AND change my clothes AND groom eyebrows (so as to encourage more Yogadultery) reached its apex of anxiety and with a full-body shudder I logged on to FreshDirect and started clicking madly. Thirty hours later my doorbell rang and six boxes of groceries and sundries landed in my hallway.
And now my fridge overfloweth and my mind is spinning with the dinner possibilities. Sure, I had planned on a sensible dinner of salmon and salad and green beans (duh, new yoga priorities = clean eating), but I kind of want oatmeal raisin cookies, salami, and a frozen pizza. And I could have it ALL. It’s right here! In my kitchen!
There was a phantom FreshDirect box mixed in with my order, strangely taped/bound to another box of mine, and the phantom box had two loaves of bread and a bag of tortilla chips. Clearly the evil carbs were not mine (Yoga! New Priorities!) but we hadn’t been charged for them, and I had no need for two extra loaves of sliced bread or a bag of salty temptation…but had no idea what to do with the food either. I opted to leave them leaning gently against the fence in front of our building, as a yoga-inspired offering, of simple carbs and home delivery. The New York sidewalks serve as an incredibly efficient marketplace and trading floor, so I am hoping the wayward packaged goods find a needy home. It seems quite in line with my new yoga practice, that I put the tortilla chips out there and hope the universe leads them to some salsa or at the very least, some melty cheese or a beer.
I am making fun of myself with the new yogamania, but in all honestly, this feels like a life change. Smugness aside, I really do feel like my priorities are shifting and I really am excited about the idea of homemaking and cooking and [gasp] starting to sort of maybe think about thinking about maybe planning to have potential babies. Maybe. Sort of. Somewhere down the hypothetical road. It’s a nice feeling, and also budget-friendly because suddenly I would rather cook dinner for my friends than meet them out for cocktails and trendy meals. I have been using yoga classes as a monetary unit, as in “Those jeans are very cute but they would cost me 10 yoga classes…” I contemplated CLOGS. That is where my head is at, people.
It’s not a perfect system, I’ll admit. Frankly, I blame Flickr for the wavering. Just when I reach a point of contentment with my dog-walking, movie-renting, dinner-eating, wine-drinking, asleep-by-midnight self, I start randomly clicking on contacts of contacts of contacts on Flickr and get INSANELY JEALOUS of all the totally bitchin’ parties out there, parties to which I have not been invited, and NO, just because the party was in Chicago does not mean it doesn’t still sting. How can I have spent $12 on anti-bacterial wipes at Target when I could have put that money to better use and bought a funky t-shirt at Urban Outfitters? Or an entire outfit at H&M? Most of a cocktail at the Gansevoort Hotel? How?! My priorities may be shifting but if you put a baby on a yoga mat to my left and a margarita and a Mulberry bag on my right, I would leap headfirst in the starboard direction.
A few years ago a coworker made a [snotty, inappropriate and unprofessional] comment to a friend of mine that, “Molly doesn’t know if she’s a Cartier ring or a pair of Frye boots.” Now, never mind the fact that this was said IN THE WORKPLACE, in reference to my WEDDING PLANNING, and was followed by a voice mail referring me to said co-worker’s eyebrow guy, never mind that it is a mean, obnoxious, catty and utterly offensive comment to make, and instead focus on why this bitch thought I needed to be one or the other. Can’t I wear my Cartier ring and my Frye boots, and still be me? Do my fucking accessories really determine that much about me? Can’t I be from California and New York? Can’t I shop uptown and downtown? Eat cheeseburgers and foie gras? Flickr taunts me with all the anonymous FUN FUN FUN splashed across its pages, but I have to keep remembering that just because I’m married and totally got my jollies earlier today imagining all the leftovers I could have, dammit, I’m still fun! Owning nice table linens and getting excited about artisinal cheeses doesn’t mean I’m dead inside. I still have my Frye boots, and one of these days I’m going to pull them on and spend all the grocery money on laser tag and beer.
The next morning I will get up and sweat booze, hoping that smelling like an ashtray does not preclude yogadultery. It’s all about priorities.