A field report on settling, self-betrayal, and sad lettuce.
from the Wilde Files
Let me tell you about the moment a limp piece of romaine lettuce became my therapist.
Tuesday afternoon. Brooklyn bodega. I’m standing in front of the “fresh” section (and I’m using that word generously, the way I use the word “fine” when someone asks how my love life is going), staring at a plastic container of what can only be described as vegetable depression.
Inside this sad little tomb: lettuce that peaked about five to seven days ago. One single tomato wedge looking lonely as hell. Three croutons that appear to be the last survivors of a small kitchen war. And a packet of dressing that is almost certainly 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.
(Narrator: Fuck.)
My brain, a professional gaslighter when it comes to my own standards, started doing that thing where it builds an entire justification presentation in real time.
It’s fine. It’s right here.
I don’t have time to find something better.
At least it’s something.
Maybe it won’t be that bad.
I’ve already committed to the idea of salad.
You know when you hear yourself making excuses and you can literally feel the part of your brain that has standards slowly packing a suitcase and moving out? That.
I handed my credit card to the cashier, who definitely knew he was robbing me. He had the energy of a man who has watched thousands of women make this exact mistake and stopped feeling things about it.
And halfway through that transaction, I had a moment of devastating clarity.
This is exactly how I’ve been treating my love life.
In the last year alone, I have stayed in conversations with men who gave me less energy than a dying parking meter. I’ve made excuses for people who couldn’t meet me even a quarter of the way. I’ve settled for crumbs because they were convenient and familiar and right there in front of me. I’ve convinced myself that “at least it’s something” was an acceptable standard for love.
I have been buying $17 bodega salads in human form.
And just like that tragic lunch, I kept telling myself it was “fine” while knowing. KNOWING. It wasn’t even close to fine.
The guy who texts just enough to keep you 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 you everything and gives you three sad battle-weary croutons and a packet of expired hope? Bodega. Salad. Baby.
I sat on a bench outside and ate the whole thing.
Every disappointing bite. The lettuce. The mealy tomato. The croutons that tasted like cardboard that had given up on life. The dressing was… honestly, I don’t even know what it was. Regret, maybe. Regret with a vinaigrette label.
And I ate it because I’d paid for it.
Which is exactly what I’ve done in relationships. Stuck around because I’d “already invested,” even when I knew it wasn’t nourishing me. Even when every interaction left me more hungry than the one before. Even when I could taste the disappointment and kept chewing anyway.
Sunk cost fallacy tastes like bland lettuce, turns out.
I sat there on that bench, romaine stuck in my teeth, and 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 next day, I walked three extra blocks.
I know. Revolutionary behavior. Somebody call the Nobel committee. A woman walked past a bodega.
But I did it. I walked past the sad salad shrine, past the cashier who has seen too much, past the “fresh” section that is a lie from the pit of hell, and I kept going.
Three blocks later, I sat down at an actual restaurant. Spent $14. LESS than the bodega salad. And I got a salad that made me believe in joy again. Fresh velvet soft butter lettuce. Goat cheese. Candied pecans. Berries that were actually berries and not just edible matter in the shape and color of berries. And a homemade lemon balsamic that tasted like someone actually cared.
I sat there eating it, and I was full. Not “fine.” Not “at least it’s something.” Full. Satisfied. Like my standards and my lunch had finally met each other for the first time.
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 actually there. Because I’d convinced myself that good enough was all I could realistically expect from salad, from men, from life.
I’m not going to tell you to audit your relationships or do a challenge this week or make a list. You already know where the bodega salads are in your life. You know which conversations leave you hungry. You know which people cost more than they’re worth.
You’ve known for a while.
The restaurant is three blocks away. It’s always been three blocks away.
Sometimes the only thing between you and something that actually nourishes you is the willingness to walk past the thing that’s convenient and keep going. Not because you’re super-crazy brave. Because you’re finally tired enough of being hungry.
I’m tired.
So I’m walking.
Suffering is optional, babe.
xoxo, Ares
P.S. That $14 restaurant salad? Best decision I made all week. Took three extra blocks and five extra minutes. Sometimes the good stuff is 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. Delete his number.
