There are few mistakes in life more expensive than grocery shopping while hungry.
People talk about major financial risks.
The stock market.
Cryptocurrency.
Interest rates.
Meanwhile I'm standing in the snack aisle making decisions that could destabilize a household budget.
A grocery list is a beautiful thing.
A grocery list represents logic.
Discipline.
Planning.
A grocery list is who you aspire to be.
A hungry person is who you actually are.
You enter the store needing milk, eggs, and bread.
Twenty minutes later you're wheeling around enough food to host the Super Bowl.
Suddenly everything seems essential.
Mozzarella sticks?
Necessary.
Frozen cheesecake?
Probably.
Family-sized bag of chips?
What if there's an emergency?
What kind of emergency requires seventeen servings of cheddar popcorn?
I don't know.
But I'd rather be prepared.
The bakery department becomes particularly dangerous.
Nobody has ever walked past fresh bread while hungry and made good decisions.
The smell alone should require a warning label.
You're halfway through the store convincing yourself that a six-pack of giant cookies is somehow a responsible investment.
"Well, they're on sale."
No they aren't.
They're still cookies.
The sale didn't transform them into produce.
Then you reach the rotisserie chicken.
The rotisserie chicken section is where dignity goes to die.
Suddenly you're standing there staring at a chicken like you've been stranded at sea.
You can practically hear it calling your name.
The hungry brain is an incredible thing.
A normal brain says:
"We have food at home."
A hungry grocery-store brain says:
"We may never eat again."
That's how people end up buying things they've never purchased before and will never purchase again.
Nobody plans to buy jalapeño mango pretzel bites.
That's a hunger decision.
Somewhere between aisle seven and low blood sugar, your standards completely collapse.
And can we discuss free samples?
Under normal circumstances, one bite of microwaved pizza on a toothpick would not alter the course of your day.
When you're hungry?
It's a religious experience.
You start following the sample person around the store like a woodland creature.
"Oh wow, another mini quiche?"
Don't mind if I do.
The real horror arrives at checkout.
Because eventually you see the total.
And suddenly you're no longer hungry.
You're reflective.
Thoughtful.
Concerned.
The receipt is approximately four feet long and contains several items you don't even remember selecting.
When did I buy caramel popcorn?
Why do I own three kinds of crackers?
Who approved this?
The answer, unfortunately, is me.
Hungry me.
The least qualified version of me.
And the final insult comes three days later.
Because all the foods that seemed absolutely critical in the store are still sitting untouched in the pantry.
The grapes are dying.
The lettuce is questionable.
The healthy meal ingredients remain optimistic.
But somehow the cookies have disappeared.
It's a mystery.
A complete mystery.
One we'll never solve.