I want to start this by saying I am completely serious.
This morning I walked into Whole Foods wearing navy linen trousers and a Junya Watanabe button-up I bought on Grailed for $120 which is a steal, because I am what one might call a recession-proof aesthetician. I dress like a man who makes almond milk from scratch and silently judges your deodorant ingredients.
I had no intention of doing anything dramatic. I was just there for cold brew and smoked trout.
But then it happened.
There was a man in front of me in the self-checkout line. Patagonia vest. Loafers with no socks. He looked like he drinks protein out of a wine glass. His cart was filled with Greek yogurt and things labeled “Paleo.”
He looked back at me. Just for a second.
It wasn’t long, but it was long enough.
Long enough for my brain to instantly manufacture an entire narrative in which he was my nemesis, my shadow self, the foil to my curated self-loathing. I imagined him having a girlfriend who calls him “babe” and a father who says “proud of you” without blinking.
As he fumbled scanning his kale chips, I smiled. Just slightly. The kind of smile you make when you know the secret.
And I said, unprovoked, “That brand has seed oils.”
He looked at me. “What?”
I repeated it louder: “That brand has seed oils.”
He blinked. “Okay?”
I nodded like I had just delivered an ancient truth. Then, with surgical confidence, I walked out of line. Didn’t buy a single thing. I left my cart there.
I walked home in complete silence. No AirPods. Just the sound of my own breath and the low hum of a civilization that doesn’t know what it’s doing.