A field report on settling, self-betrayal, and sad lettuce
Let me tell you about the moment a limp piece of romaine lettuce became my therapist.
The Scene of the Crime
Tuesday afternoon. Brooklyn bodega. I’m standing in front of the “fresh” section (and I’m using that word very generously here), staring at a plastic container of what can only be described as vegetable depression.
Inside this sad little tomb:
- Lettuce that’s seen better days (specifically, about 5-7 days ago)
- One (1) tomato wedge looking lonely as hell
- Three croutons that appear to have survived a small war
- A packet of dressing that’s probably older than my last relationship
Price tag: $17.29
I knew it was overpriced. I knew it wasn’t even going to taste good. I knew I was about to participate in my own scam.
And I bought it anyway.
The Excuses We Tell Ourselves
As I stood there, my brain started doing that thing where it creates an entire justification PowerPoint:
“It’s fine. It’s right here.” “I don’t have time to find something better.”
“At least it’s something.” “I’m too tired to walk three more blocks to the place with actual food.” “Maybe it won’t be that bad.” “I’ve already committed to the idea of salad.”
Sound familiar?
Because halfway through handing my credit card to the bored cashier who definitely knew he was robbing me, I had a moment of devastating clarity:
This is exactly how I’ve been treating my love life.
Living Small in a Plastic Container
In the last year alone, I have:
- Stayed in conversations with men who gave me less energy than a dying parking meter
- Made excuses for people who couldn’t meet me even a quarter of the way
- Settled for crumbs because they were convenient, familiar, and right there in front of me
- Convinced myself that “at least it’s something” was an acceptable standard
- Paid emotional prices that far exceeded what I was actually getting
- Ignored every red flag because addressing them felt like too much work
I’ve been buying $17 bodega salads in human form.
And just like that tragic lunch, I kept telling myself it was “fine” while knowing damn well it wasn’t even close to fine.
The Anatomy of Settling
Here’s what settling actually looks like (in salads and in love):
The Bodega Salad Version:
- You know it’s overpriced
- You can see it’s underwhelming
- You recognize it won’t actually satisfy you
- But it’s right there and you’re tired
- So you pay too much for too little
- And eat it anyway because you already committed
The Dating Version:
- You know he’s emotionally unavailable
- You can see he’s giving minimum effort
- You recognize this won’t actually fulfill you
- But he’s right there and you’re lonely
- So you invest too much for too little
- And stay anyway because you already committed
Same energy. Different disappointment.
Why We Do It
Settling—in lunch or in love—is comfortable. It’s quick. It requires zero risk. It saves us from:
- The vulnerability of wanting more
- The work of seeking out something that actually fills us up
- The possibility of not finding anything at all
- The scary act of believing we deserve better
- The effort of walking a little farther for something worth having
But here’s the problem I’ve discovered: the more you accept “good enough,” the more your standard for yourself quietly lowers.
You start thinking:
- Maybe this is just how it is
- Maybe I should be grateful for anything at all
- Maybe wanting more makes me high-maintenance
- Maybe I’m being unrealistic
- Maybe this is what I deserve
And suddenly, you’re living small—inside the plastic container someone else measured out for you.
The Wake-Up Bite
Reader, that salad was terrible.
The lettuce was bitter. The tomato was mealy. The croutons tasted like cardboard that had given up on life. The dressing was… honestly, I don’t even know. Regret, maybe?
And I ate it anyway, because I paid for it.
Sat there on a bench, choking down every disappointing bite, because I’d already invested $17.29 and walking away felt like admitting defeat.
Which is exactly what I’ve done in relationships:
Stuck around because I’d “already invested,” even when I knew—KNEW—it wasn’t nourishing me. Even when every bite made me feel worse. Even when I could taste the disappointment with every interaction.
Sunk cost fallacy tastes like sad lettuce, turns out.
The Pattern I Keep Repeating
I realized I have a type. And it’s not “tall, dark, and handsome.”
It’s “good enough, right here, and I’m too tired to look for better.”
The guy who texts just enough to keep me interested but never enough to feel secure. Bodega salad.
The situationship that’s convenient but never quite becomes real. Bodega salad.
The almost-relationship that costs me everything and gives me crumbs. Bodega salad.
I’ve been Ubering to bodegas when there are actual restaurants three blocks away.
The Shift
Halfway through those traumatized croutons, I made myself a promise:
If I wouldn’t pay for it in food, I won’t pay for it in love.
If it’s:
- Overpriced (costs me more than it gives)
- Underwhelming (doesn’t actually meet my needs)
- Clearly not fresh (emotionally unavailable, recycling old patterns)
- Leaving me hungry (unfulfilled, wanting more)
- Something I’m only choosing because it’s convenient
I’m out.
No more eating sad salads just because I already paid. No more staying in disappointing situations just because I already invested time. No more accepting “at least it’s something” when what I actually need is nourishment.
The Restaurant Three Blocks Away
Want to know the kicker?
The next day, I walked three extra blocks to an actual restaurant. Spent $14 (LESS than the bodega salad, mind you), and got a salad that made me believe in joy again.
Fresh ingredients. Real flavor. Actual satisfaction. Left me full instead of resentful.
It was three blocks away the entire time.
And I’d been choosing the bodega because walking three blocks felt like too much effort. Because I didn’t trust that something better was waiting. Because I’d convinced myself that good enough was all I could expect.
How many relationships have I done this with?
How many times have I settled for the bodega boy when the actual restaurant was just a little more effort away? How many times have I chosen convenient over nourishing because I was too tired to believe I deserved more?
Your Challenge This Week
I want you to do a brutal audit. Ask yourself:
Where are you paying too much—in time, energy, or hope—for something that gives you almost nothing back?
Where are you:
- Accepting “it’s fine” when you actually want “this lights me up”
- Staying because you already invested, not because it’s actually good
- Choosing convenient over fulfilling
- Settling for crumbs when you need a full meal
- Convincing yourself that wanting more is unreasonable
Then, ditch the $17 salad. Ditch the person who makes you feel like one.
The Bodega Boy Recognition Guide
Not sure if you’re dating a bodega salad? Here are the signs:
Bodega Salad Energy:
- Convenient but not satisfying
- Available but not nourishing
- Costs more than it’s worth
- You know it’s not good but you buy it anyway
- Leaves you hungry for something real
- You make excuses for why you chose it
- Deep down, you know you deserve better
Restaurant Energy:
- Worth the extra effort to get to
- Costs what it’s worth (or less)
- Actually fills you up
- You look forward to it
- Leaves you satisfied, not resentful
- You don’t have to convince yourself it’s good—you just know
Stop Ubering to bodegas, babe.
What I’m Learning
The bodega salad taught me something I’ve been avoiding:
I’ve been choosing convenience over worth because I don’t trust that I deserve the restaurant.
I’ve been settling for “at least it’s something” because:
- I’m scared there might not be something better
- I don’t want to be alone while I look
- I’m tired and just want to be fed something
- I’ve convinced myself that good enough is realistic and wanting more is delusional
- Walking three more blocks feels impossible when you’re already exhausted
But tired isn’t a good enough reason to starve.
And being exhausted from past disappointments isn’t a good enough reason to settle for current ones.
The Permission You’re Waiting For
Here it is: You’re allowed to want more.
You’re allowed to:
- Walk past the bodega even though it’s convenient
- Refuse to pay too much for too little
- Believe there’s something better three blocks away
- Leave disappointing situations even after you’ve invested
- Choose nourishment over convenience
- Require that your relationships actually fill you up
Wanting a meal that satisfies you isn’t high-maintenance. It’s baseline self-respect.
The Bottom Line
I spent $17.29 on a salad that made me feel like garbage.
I’ve spent years on relationships that did the same thing.
Both were choices I made because I was too tired to believe I deserved better. Both were compromises I made with myself that cost me more than money—they cost me my sense of worth.
No more.
If it’s not nourishing me, I’m not paying for it. Not in food. Not in love. Not in any area of my life.
The restaurant is three blocks away. And I’m finally tired enough of being hungry to walk there.
xoxo
Ares
P.S. – That $14 restaurant salad? Had goat cheese, candied walnuts, fresh berries, and a balsamic that tasted like someone actually cared. Took me three extra blocks and five extra minutes. Best decision I made all week. Sometimes the good stuff requires just a little more effort than settling. And it’s always, always worth it.
P.P.S. – If you’re reading this and thinking “but my bodega salad MIGHT get better,” babe, lettuce doesn’t un-wilt. Move on.
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