This morning I went grocery shopping. Unless I'm at Trader Joe's or an international market, grocery shopping doesn't exactly knock my socks off. If anything, it hammers my soul to smithereens. Something about huge buildings, industrial lighting, vast quantities of food shrink-wrapped together, people pushing pallets stacked with frozen waffles, shrimp platters, gallons of dip. It goes down like rain at a picnic and mud all over my new party dress.
At any rate, I parked as far away from the store as I possibly could, since I read somewhere this is the French woman's secret to staying slim and fabulous.
Was there perhaps more to that article? Did someone rip out the second page which divulged even better secrets? Maybe so. Because I've been parking light years away from stores for ages now and I have yet to waltz through a room and hear people whisper, "Fabulous. How does she do it?!"
As I walked across the parking lot, I noticed a trail of raspberries along the way, some no more than a smear, others sadly tattered, a few still plump and luscious. And for some reason it was all I could do not to pick up the good ones and pop them in my mouth. They looked so tempting!
The only thing stopping me was a small litmus test I often apply to such situations wherein I ask: Would a mother scold her toddler if he did what I'm about to do?
If the answer is yes, I generally reconsider my plan of action. Unless I don't care about getting scolded.
So I went inside and purchased some raspberries of my own. That was the better choice, right?
But I still think it such a shame--so many pretty, ruined berries! Perhaps I should have eaten them, after all.
I hope whoever dropped them went on to have a vastly better day.