Love + Sex
Whole Foods Hookup
Of all the organic-salad-bar joints in all the towns, in all the world –
he walked into mine
As you may recall, last week I wrote about my date with a doctor, who canceled at the last minute. The follow-up to that story is that we had a makeup date a few days later, which turned out lovely. So lovely, in fact, that I didn’t feel compelled to spill my guts about it for the entertainment of strangers.
The next day, I was out running errands in Manhattan, humming “I Kissed a Girl” and attempting find some sort of feminist value to the song, since it refuses to leave my brain. Suddenly I noticed my blood sugar plummeting. Most people get a signal from their stomach in this situation, like, “Hey, friend, we might want to think about finding a sandwich when we’re done at the post office; I’m running on empty down here.”
I do not have the luxury of such polite advance warning. Instead, I turn into an angry werewolf who will eat cardboard, headbands and small children in my quest to feed the beast. I evaluated my options – McDonald’s (no, this wasn’t quite nuclear-crisis level), a small shih tzu being carried by a Talbots-clad MILF (possibly, although the woman’s handbag looked like it might leave a bruise) and a bustling Whole Foods Market.
$22 of organic comfort food later, I took my hot and cold salad-bar selections to a corner table. I hunched over the various cardboard boxes and shoveled down the amalgam of world cuisine. Indian, Thai, Catalonian, Uruguayan Slow Food – there was a macrobiotic United Nations session unfolding in my stomach.
Mid-bite, I noticed a man pulling up a chair next to me. I lurched up from my arugula, salmon & hand-fed diamond pizza to see the doctor, who was carrying a single, modest plate of fresh veggies.
You know that feeling of being wonderfully surprised by life? The feeling we used to have so often when we were younger – that magical things could happen at any moment, if only we were to watch for them? That fate can blow in when you least expect it?
As I wiped the antibiotic-free tofu off my chin, I was overcome by that feeling.
Of all the organic salad-bar joints in all the towns, in all the world – he walked into mine.
I’m not sure whether the doctor realized the cinematic significance of this moment. That in a city of 1.5 million people and no fewer than five Whole Foods Markets, we’d end up in the same little corner at the same little moment … for a writer, that’s pure (organic) gold. For the doctor, it might have been more of a hummus moment.
But still. Some people have Paris. We’ll always have the Whole Foods salad bar.