Yesterday, I fell deeply in love with this bag I found online. Ohmygawd, I thought, that bag is fucking beautiful. But is it a bag or a basket? It’s neither: it’s a bagsket! And this chick – she looks so… organic. That gauzy cotton blouse, those generic jeans, the fuck-em-all loose do. Betcha the bitch has perfect skin and an Ivory-girl glow that comes with riding a bike to the farmers market every Monday for kale and naan bread and freshly made guacamole.
I wanna be that girl. I wanna have that bagsket. I could take it to my farmer’s market on my bicycle just like she does, and fill it with kale and naan bread and freshly made guacamole. Rick and I could eat and then go for a nice evening walk – or maybe drive to the beach and picnic there while the sun sets. How amazing life would be! Yup, I TOTALLY need this bagsket. LET’S ORDER IT!
Wait a fucking minute.
Really? I don’t need a bagsket.
I haven’t been to the farmer’s market in months. The guacamole there sucks. I hate naan. And I think kale is about as tasty as a rubber band. I haven’t ridden my bike in like forever, and sunsets happen at hideously inconvenient times, like when Rick’s en route from work or we’re getting into that second bottle of wine.
I even detest the smell of baskety-types of things.
I definitely do not need this bagsket.
But I sure as shit love the IDEA of it.
I love the idea of lots of things. Power walking. Opera. Gluten-free cookies. Spin class. Juicing. Bernie Sanders.
I want to like these things. But the simple truth is I don’t. And it’s likely I never will.
If I bought this bagsket, I’d covet it for a short period of time, perhaps even attempt to wear it while on the bike heading down the farmers market. Once. Then, after realizing it didn’t hold the answers, I’d sentence it to a deep, dark part of the spare-bedroom closet where it would spend the remainder of its life accompanied by myriad other items I purchased because I liked the idea of them as well.
I don’t want to be the person who buys shit because I think it will make me a different person. I want to be the person who is happy with who I am and knows I just need to be better. Better at saving for retirement and meeting deadlines. At being more patient and less judgemental. At remembering to water the plants and change the bedsheets more often than – well, we’ll stop there. Just better at things that have nothing to do with this bagsket. Or any other thing, for that matter.
Because if I think my answers are in these things, then I’m a fucking bagsket case.