I’m not going to say I’ve never been to Whole Foods. I’ve been there lots of times. Whenever I feel like almost getting run over by an asshole in a Volvo SUV, I know right where to go. But my Whole Foods experience has been mainly limited to supplements and pizza. Whenever something goes wrong with my bod, I decide I must need some kind of probiotic macrobiotic robotic supplement to right the wrongs going on with my insidey parts. It lasts for one week and then whatever $30 bottle I purchased ends up in Supplement Death Row (aka, a shelf in my closet). Also, they have fantastic pizza.
But I have discovered hot yoga. I have discovered that I enjoy feeling like I’m in Florida in July while downward dogging, vinyasa flowing and warrior one-ing. I don’t know how this happened, I really don’t. I used to feel like I was dying when I got too hot. I moan and groan and loudly remind everyone how hot it is ("It’s fucking ridiculously hot in here, you guys”) and pray for a spontaneous ice age. But after a knee injury, I somehow lifted my fat ass off the couch and went to the hot yoga place I had been driving by for months and thinking, “I wonder what that’s like.”
It’s my temple, y’all. It smells deliciously clean, like non-toxic disinfectant. Everyone is real zen like (or they’re pretending to be) and we all smile at each other, say “excuse me” and no one even giggles if you accidentally blow ass during wind relieving pose. Why? Because we’re detoxifying. Every ounce of justified anger, clinical depression, anxiety, judgment and anything else that makes us horrible is dripping off us, one pose at a time. When we emerge from that darkened 104 degree room, we’re psychologically clean, limber and in desperate need of a shower. I usually feel like I’m floating somewhere between about to pass out and just won $250 on the nickel slots in Vegas until someone cuts me off on highway 100 on my way home and I scream, “I hope you get a splinter under your fingernail!”
Anyway, when those lithe, glowing Canadians said “30 Day Yoga & Cleanse Challenge”, I was like, “Yes, yes, whatever you think is best.” And off to Whole Foods I went. I got the big cart and mentally prepared myself to spend the entirety of my paycheck. “It’s ok”, I thought as I loaded my cart with $15 worth of blueberries. “She works hard for the money.”
I had my book to make sure I didn’t accidentally buy something I wasn’t supposed to have. Apples? Yes. Melons? No. Why? No—don’t ask questions; just cleanse. Organic chicken. Almond milk (which is delicious by the way). Brown rice and quinoa. Gluten free oats. In case you didn’t know (and you probably don’t) oats are naturally gluten free BUT they are often CONTAMINATED by gluten-containing products that are grown in the same field and/or processed in the same plant. So you have to look for a brand that gives you a big story about how they're truly gluten free. You’re welcome.
I sometimes like to put peanut butter in my oatmeal but peanut butter isn’t allowed. What? Why the hell – no! Do the cleanse, Dresden! Don’t question the cleanse!
Because I was tired from picking all that food out, I didn't feel like looking for almond butter (which is a cleanse approved butter), so I asked the lady at the cruelty-free grass fed organic cheese counter where I might find it. She smiled at me and said, “Would you like to grind your own?”
What?
I just stood there with $500 worth of flaxseed and dairy-free, gluten-free soy-free taste-free vegan protein powder in my cart, holding my Coach purse containing my Louis Vitton wallet (that I bought behind a restaurant in downtown Mazatlan but is totally real) and stared at her.
Do I want to grind my own almond butter? No. I’m not a pilgrim.
“Uuuuh... do you have some that’s…already been ground?”
Now I can’t be sure but I’m almost positive that she totally judged me a little bit. There was a slight narrowing of the eyes and a shift in the smile, as if to say. “Real women grind their own almond butter.” But what she really said was, “You mean jarred almond butter?”
Yes. I mean the food that I can take home, open and eat. Do you also have a back 40 where shoppers can kill their own turkey? Do I need to silken my own tofu? Milk my own almonds? Miss Sassy Vegan Cheese Pants lead me to the already ground almond butter, which, by the way, is fucking expensive. The cheapest jar I could find was $10. That’s about when I started to grumble like an old white man in Georgia after Jim Crow was abolished and I knew it was time to go home.
On my way out, I passed the almond butter grinding station. A middle aged woman and her teenaged daughter (who were both wearing skinny jeans and Uggs) were placing the lid on their plastic container of freshly ground almond butter. For a moment, I felt a twinge of jealousy. Maybe I should have ground my own almond butter. Maybe I need to drive less. Perhaps I should buy a Prius. I need to stop wearing leather. Maybe I should quit my job and buy a farm and have chickens and goats and a husband with a beard. But then I remembered that I just got cable again and I wasn’t giving up the Investigation Discovery channel for nothin’. No. I’m here for the already prepared food that you’re charging me a billion dollars for. If I want to grind something, I’ll call Ryan Gosling.
