You are what you eat

Almost everyone I know hates grocery shopping. And when I say “hate,” I don’t mean they find it sort of annoying, or a minor inconvenience. I mean they loathe it with the kind of fiery passion that could melt the grille off a Studebaker.

Granted, it’s not exactly a ride on the Tilt-A-Whirl. For many of us it falls under the category of “dull necessity,” a chore we tolerate because avoiding said chore would result in us dying, or at the very least being too out-of-our-minds with hunger that we can’t concentrate on the dentist’s old copy of “Entertainment Weekly.” We run low on food, we buy some. Simple. Nobody walks into the bread aisle shouting “Yippee!” Well, almost nobody.

When I ask people why the thought of grocery shopping fills them with such vitriol, the most common response I get it that it sucks up a lot of time. Picture it: Harry’s just put in a full day at the office. It was a bad one. People screamed at him over the phone relentlessly, his boss told him his work was sloppy, and when everyone gathered in the breakroom to celebrate Janet’s retirement he got the cake with the least amount of frosting. Plus his last name is Butts. That’s more of a life issue, but still, it didn’t help.

Then, after all that, Harry’s got to run down to the local supermarket to grab the items on his shopping list. They’re big items. He walks up to the cashier with a 10-lb. turkey, a gallon of 2 percent milk, 18 eggs (his wife loves omelettes), a loaf of pumpernickel, 14 boxes of Fig Newtons and two large jugs of Jim Beam, because yes, his day was all kinds of horrible. And since his wife is at her book club discussing “37 Shades of Off-White,” he has to lug this haul up to their third-floor apartment on his own. Did I mention Harry has a bad back? Yeah, Harry has a bad back.

The whole ordeal eats up about an hour and a half of a perfectly fine evening, and now he no longer has time to finish his oil painting of Patrick Duffy’s wristwatch. I can see why he doesn’t like grocery shopping. I mean, c’mon.

Call me a contrarian, but unlike Harry I’ve come to rather enjoy groceries. Despite the fact that, yes, it can be a massive time-suck, it doesn’t have to be an all-out grueling experience. As with many things, it’s all about mindset -- the attitude you bring into it.

For one thing, most people love food. (Most, in fact, love it a little too much, which is what keeps fitness clubs and Weight Watchers in such swingin’ business.) Can’t say I blame them; food is amazing. You get to stick something tasty in your mouth and in exchange you receive nutrition, a full and satisfied stomach, and in some cases a bout of hiccups so severe you end up slobbering seltzer water all over the living room rug. Of course, if you overdo things or make the wrong decisions you can also end up with diabetes and heart disease, but that’s not the point. The point is that food is great, and when you walk into the store and you’re surrounded by it, there’s a transcendent experience to be had. Think of the possibilities.

I mean, you can eat anything in the store. Anything. Assuming you’re lucky enough to have the financial means, walking through the aisles is like a choose-your-own-adventure book. Two people can walk into the same store, and one can load up on cookies and gummy bears while the other strolls out with oozy beef slabs and 14 cans of asparagus. Neither of those schmoes has got what it takes to put together a healthful meal, but they’re both exercising the unique freedom to choose. They’re deciding, in this outsized cornucopia, on the edible items that will keep them walking and breathing and playing slap bass in their funk bands.

Because as the saying goes, “You are what you eat,” and what many people don’t think about is how true that is in a literal sense. The cells in your body are continually dying and regenerating -- you’re made up of completely different cells than you were 20 years ago -- and they regenerate using the nutrients from the food you eat. So if you were to eat, say, nothing but peanut butter and cabbage for the next couple of decades, your body would be made primarily out of peanut butter and cabbage (and potentially Botox, depending on whether or not you live on the West Coast). You’d be extremely unhealthy and smell like a plastic bag filled with old seaweed, but hey, it’s your own fault for only shopping from the aisles closest to the register.

While most people walk into that store with slumped shoulders and an agonized groan, I’m thinking, “OK, what would I like to be made of this week?” This is, in all likelihood, an insane thing to think, and if one of you people reading this is a psychiatrist, maybe you can give me an armchair diagnosis and hook me up with some rad meds. But that’s my method of avoiding the dejectedness of hauling around gargantuan piles of stuff for long stretches. I imagine I’m picking out my constituent ingredients, selecting myself from amidst colorful aisles of multitudes.

It’s weird, but it helps.

As for Harry, things have gotten worse, I’m afraid. That three-flight haul with armloads of groceries is now more difficult following an ankle injury sustained while kicking a dying Maytag washer. It’s going to be a while before the cast comes off, and even then things will be touch-and-go for a little while. And did I mention his last name was Butts?

Not to worry, though. He’s made up mostly of Chef Boyardee beef ravioli and Campbell’s Chunky Jammin’ Jerk Chicken. That’s some pretty hardy stuff right there.