By Lex, on September 27, 2008
So there I was, cruising the aisles of the local Jimbo’s organic grocery hoping for gustatory inspiration, when I suddenly realized that every other person in the establishment, from the hollow-eyed, Brillo-haired stoner at the checkout counter with the gauges in his ears, to the pair of middle aged gentlemen aggressively padding the aisles with bowed legs, slip-on loafers, spandex shorts and Italian team cycling jerseys, to the angry-eyed female couple with their stout, hairy legs thrusting resolutely out from within their REI cargo shorts and terminating in their matching Birkenstocks, to the vaguely anesthetized woman wandering through the patchouli selection in her tie-dyed t-shirt and gypsy skirt, to the bovine couple – he in pony tail and goatee, she in a spinaker-sized muu-muu whose billowing folds hinted of mysterious things not yet seen nor even dreamt upon – both of them working their stoic way through all of the various samples on offer throughout the store with fixed determination, yea: even unto the perpetually peevish pint-sized person parking his Prius at the portal – everyone – would be voting for Barack Obama come November.
It was a dispiriting notion somehow, and I felt hemmed in, surrounded, outnumbered. Oppressed. By the sheer hopiness of it. And change.
Until later, when, munching thoughtfully on my free range chicken breast and arugula salad with oil and balsamic vinaigrette dressing – too much, I always use too much – I said to myself: Eh.