A Brief Tale of Melancholy

My hands are covered in blue and green Sharpie pen marks, and I don't know why.

But this is beside the point, the point being that I was in a state of inexplicable melancholy this morning as I walked into Target to pick up the things that I always forget to pick up: dishwashing detergent, ziploc bags, band-aids. I sunk deeper into my gloom as I made my way around the store appalled by the poor food choices (this, however, did not keep me from picking up Lea's favorite chocolate chip muffin mix) available and—even though I am completely backed up in the reading department and had no intention of purchasing reading material—the equally poor book choices. No offense, but is Jodi Picoult the only writer in the entire fucking world?

The checkout lines were so long, and the woman in front of me was purchasing seat cushions that so deeply offended my aesthetic sense (why must anything at all have a mustard yellow fern motif?) that I switched to a line that was even longer. But just then one of the express line checkout ladies called me over. Me? But I have more than ten items, I said. And she said, It's okay, it's okay. And so I pushed my cart over to her and vocalized my thanks. I looked at her nametag. Her name was "Pie."

And just like that, my melancholy lifted.