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.
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"Force me to live in the moment and acknowledge the ways in which I’m hiding from an awareness of my own feelings."
Annnd right out the gate, this hits me where I live!
I just have to carry mine from the driveway, so there's no hallway or parking garage, but I still relate. I do have the added danger that my 90-year-old father-in-law will see me and try to help.