Do Not Go Gently into that Good Supermarket
How to rage against the snack aisle.
Don’t panic. The supermarket doors had just locked while I was standing in the checkout line. “Everyone stay exactly where you are. We have an amber alert for a lost child.”
Head down, act natural, Justin.
Looking down, there was nothing natural about my shopping basket, packed with the most ultra-processed food on the planet. As an American, you can proudly call me the number one consumer of snack foods worldwide (Japan is number two, Canada number six). They say only two-thirds of daily calories for American children and teens come from ultra-processed food. I say we can do 100%! And so what if the latest and largest study of over 10 million people showed that consuming ultra-processed food was associated with 32 health problems, especially heart disease-related deaths, Type 2 diabetes, and common mental health issues like anxiety and depression?
Standing in the checkout line that evening while they searched for a lost kid, I didn’t register any anxiety. Like my childhood hero, He-Man, I had the powerrrrrr . . . to disassociate. Besides, I looked completely trustworthy. I just came from the gym, wearing my hoodie—hood up—and baggy workout pants. At 25 years old, I stood 6’3”, scraggly scruff, vacant furtive eyes, plus my aura of anger.
Pay no attention to my shopping basket loaded with kid-friendly junk food. Because when you’re as numb as I am, one little box of animal crackers won’t soothe the raging belly beast. I had the frilly stuff, like Rice Krispie treats, party-size bags of gummi bears, and Funfetti Oreos. Which by the way, why are there so many flavors of Oreos today? Growing up we had two. I remember the first time I ate double-stuff Oreos. They’re like MDMA crème sandwiches—Oreos make me want to hug you and do more.
I basically had enough sugared treats to dose a small child into a cotton-candy coma and everyone saw it. Even the store manager was coming at me. I dropped my basket to the floor and prepared to scream: “Wait! It’s not me! I’ve been doing paleo and skipping carbs!”
And then the doors unlocked. They found the kid wandering the produce section.
After my exit, I should have been thinking: maybe I have a problem. That night of the amber alert, my food compulsions almost got me on a registry because some kid didn’t know their way around lettuce. Where was my red dye 40 alert? Something to let me know about the link between ultra-processed food and obsessive overeating; or that processed food hooks us through an endless combination of addictive chemical seasonings.
Instead, I threw myself back into the Food Lion’s den to take on their “patisserie” aisle. By the way, South Burlington isn’t Paris, just call it a bakery. You’re a grubby fluorescent chain store peddling chemically-injected corn and soy widgets. Over seventy percent of packaged food options are ultra-processed, containing excessive levels of salt, sugar and fat. Still, I couldn’t resist their latest concoction. Chunky chocolate-chip cookies with rainbow sprinkles, straddling a thick layer of stable cream puff, and each one the size of my sasquatch fist. I must have them all.
A nice, older woman with graying, curled hair delicately packed four in a fancy box. As if two minutes from now I wasn’t going to shred the box, shove that crimped gold ribbon under my car seat, and pop those sprinkled sugar bombs whole like a sad circus pelican. “Oh, your little boys are going to love them,” she winked at me, handing me the box. I must have looked puzzled because she repeated it. “You must have little boys at home waiting for these.”
What the hell was she talking about? No, I didn’t have any children at home. I was just a grown-ass single man who hadn’t done any therapy.
And so I became a Funfetti guerrilla, vanilla frosting smeared under the eyes, deploying Seal Team Six cover strategies.
I was an OB—Original Binger. Before self-checkout kiosks existed, I tried to “Bury the Order,” e.g., buy enough regular but non-perishable groceries like boxes of pasta, dish soap, canned beans, and then strategically mix in all of the real items I required: potato chips, chocolate doughnuts, Pop-Tarts, Cool Ranch Dorito’s, etc.
And yes, I more than once invoked the nuclear cover option. After watching The Big Lebowski, I donned a bathrobe and slippers. Then I shuffled through the sliding doors very un-Dude like. No sunglasses or confident chit-chat. I was a Keebler chameleon. A conveyor belt full of my favorite junk foods and nothing else. Not a single can of concealer beans. My slacked jaw and empty gaze to nowhere, the long trench-coat style fleece bathrobe . . . even the fuzzy slippers. No one looked at me. I felt invisible at last, like I could rob a bank. I mean, in a bathrobe and slippers, so the getaway might be tricky.
Eventually, I survived my processed food addiction through the William Blake method: “You never know what is enough, unless you know what is more than enough.”
If you see me grocery shopping in a tattered bathrobe—it’s okay. I heard Oreo’s is coming out with a new salted caramel ecstasy flavor. After all, progress not perfection.
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