First world neuroses in the fruit and vegetable section
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Plump blueberries caught my eye, but they came in a plastic container that can’t be recycled in Bozeman. Blackberries as big at the tip of my thumb enticed, but they were in a menacing plastic package same as the blueberries. Nearby, a pile of figs sat in a thin cardboard box. Dreamy memories of eating fresh figs during a trip to Montenegro came to mind, but upon closer inspection I saw they were labeled Adriatic figs. A carbon footprint the size of Montana brought them here. They were a no go.
I was bummed out. Even the Co-op sells products that come in plastic and have a huge carbon footprint. Does that leave us with any hope?
I was bombing out in the fruit section, so I moved over to vegetables; maybe I’ll make salsa. A nice pile of cherry tomatoes would do the job, but they came in plastic tower just as they do in the chain grocery stores.
I started to figuratively wring my hands while I agonized over my choices. It takes a lot of work when you go into the grocery store with this sort of consciousness. Gone are the days of a quick in and out of the store. It’s exhausting if I let it be.
As if fretting about eating healthy, non-processed, low sugar foods is not enough, I also worry about reducing waste and making sure the carbon footprint is low. I felt like a character in a Woody Allen movie; anxiety ridden, obsessing, easily frustrated. A female, 2020s, Big Sky Country version of one of America’s most neurotic characters.
Standing near the tomatoes I began wondering if everybody does this. What would it be like if I just entered the store, bought what I wanted and didn’t give a damn? Less fuss, little worry. No contemplation.
A Woody Allen movie began playing out in my mind, one in which I have the leading role.
In the movie, I still live in Bozeman while my friend, the equivalent of the Rob character in Annie Hall, has moved to Los Angeles. We once worked together as development offices priding ourselves in our role in elevating a good cause, riding our bikes or taking the bus to work, and keeping a soft footprint on the planet. But my friend got sick of it.
“Compassion fatigue Max,” she’d say. We’d call one another Max just as Woody and Rob doin Annie Hall. “All that worry is exhausting.”
But, she now lives a car-centric existence in Los Angeles. Drives a slick silver Land Rover, which she doesn’t think twice about leaving idling. Air conditioning pumps from her car and her house. Designer clothes and expensive face creams. Spa retreats and Botox injections. The ease in which she has adapted to the superficial life in what she calls The Valley shocks me.
“I rest easier here,” she says. “You should give it a try.”
So, she lives her consumption-driven life in Los Angeles. Trips to buy groceries (she’s a Costco shopper now) are a quick in and out affair for her. She doesn’t think anything of grabbing her latte in a to-go cup with a cardboard sleeve and a plastic lid. While I’m here in Montana, getting coffee in a reusable mug, working my NGO development job, fretting over the planet.
“You haven’t become Republican have you Max,” I ask. She smirks but doesn’t respond to my question.
We don’t necessarily understand one another anymore but we still enjoy each other’s company and accept the other’s eccentricities and psychodramas. Our quirks balance one another out and our habits balance our impact on the planet.
The movie faded, and I was back to reality in the Co-op agonizing over fruits and vegetables; packing and shipping; enjoyment and conservation. I don’t think I could be that person who doesn’t give a damn. I will always concern myself with what goes into my grocery basket but how I react is another question. I do wonder what it would be like to be unconcerned and content to do as I please, packaging and impact on the planet be damned. I’m not sure I could do it.
I was ready to get out of the Co-op, so I decided on two plump, local heirloom tomatoes, packaging-free. Big as softballs. An earthy aroma springs from them. One golden yellow, perfectly firm, ideal for slicing. The other, an exotic red/purple combo. Slightly squishy to the touch. Perfect for blending into salsa. Heavenly. I paid the $4.49 per pound and left the store.
As I unpacked my food at home, I realized I’m okay with an occasional bout of anxiety over the contents filling my reusable grocery bag. These are dilemmas are first world concerns for sure, and I’m comfortable with that. It’s the right thing to do.
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