It’s an unanticipated moment that pairs solitude and effort, both of which I need to prepare extra-strength mental buffers for lest they force me to live in the moment and acknowledge the ways in which I’m hiding from an awareness of my own feelings.
I might have to acknowledge how much money I spend every week on groceries I know I will not eat, not to mention the amount I spend every week on much-more-expensive last-minute delivery that I will eat instead.
I will have to repeat an uninteresting and trivial set of motions that remind me of how exhausting the mere act of self-replication can be.
I will have to think about how bad plastic bags are for the environment.
I will have to think about the environment.
I will feel insufficiently comforted by the fact that “100 corporations are responsible for the majority of pollution,” and will instead picture a single sea turtle bearing the weight of all of my plastic bags.
No one should be alone in a hallway on a Sunday afternoon.
I will remember every time I have ever become angry with a friend.
The little thin plastic bag handles will dig into my wrists, temporarily reddening them.
I will be forced to admit the limits of my own ingenuity.
I will be forced to spend a few minutes alone in a parking garage, thereby increasing my chances of feeling like I am trapped in an episode of SVU or actually being murdered myself.
I will have to balance a bunch of bags on one wrist as I struggle to open the door again, because I will have learned nothing from my first trip.
I will learn nothing from my first trip.