A Dear John Letter to Foodtown

Dear Foodtown,

It’s over. You and I just weren’t a match. I mean, don’t get me wrong–we’ll probably run into each other now and then.

But the crowded aisles, the meager organics section and almost non-existent organic produce just made me realize that you just weren’t good for me. My mental health suffered every time we got together. Face it–we had an abusive relationship. Always playing games. Never enough cashiers and certainly never enough space to stand in line without being slammed face-first into a goddamn Goldfish display. (Rainbow! Pretzel! Whole grain! Original! I know them all by heart now.)Image

Let’s not even get into the fact that you couldn’t fit a stroller through the checkout lines, so bone-weary parents of newborns had to abandon their groceries on the conveyor belt, then fight their way through the lines stretching around the store. Then, just to give you money, those same parents had to battle through the home delivery guys, stacks of boxes, and cashiers who needed voids. It was like the friggin’ Hunger Games, but with Katniss Everdeen in diapers. No wonder her mom had no hope! She didn’t have a bow and arrow to get her bags.

Let’s not even get into the old ladies. Did you bus them in from retirement homes? Don’t get me wrong. I like old ladies. I hope to live long enough to be one one day. But these old birds were tough. They were SERIOUS. A word of advice: If you’re standing in line and you feel the cold, hard steel of a granny cart pressing into your back, don’t turn around. Don’t make eye contact. Just don’t. Not if you value your life. I’ve seen some serious shit go down.

So, I’ve decided I need a calmer relationship. No, stop. Don’t tell me that I’ll miss the passion, that I’ll miss the angst. Sure, you added excitement to my marriage. You riled me up and gave me some good anecdotes, and you knew that my husband would never, ever darken your doorway. He’d heard the stories. He’d just duck into the corner bodega, and I’d pretend like I didn’t know. It worked for us. Just like he pretended he didn’t know about you, Foodtown.

What was I thinking? I mean, even your name sucks. Foodtown. Who thought of that, a toddler? Hey, we have food! And we’re kind of like a town! Maybe? Kinda sorta? I think someone was drunk. I know someone was drunk when you switched over from being MetFoods, and the only thing that changed was the sign. Oh, yeah–and you added those red and blue lights outside to better illuminate the posters of the enticing deli ham.

Yeah, I know I sound bitter. Maybe I am. I can’t help but be angry when I think of all the garbage I just accepted from you.

But, baby, times have changed. Now I have FreshDirect, Lemon Farm, and Downtown Naturals. Sure, maybe the people who named Lemon Farm were also a little bit drunk, but they were drunk on wine instead of Colt 45. When you say their name, you think of agriculture and citrus fruit. Classy. I’m upgrading. Because, frankly, it’s not me–it’s you.

Ciao, Foodtown. We’ll always have our memories.

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One Response to A Dear John Letter to Foodtown

  1. Nina says:

    The friggin thing with the strollers not fitting through the checkout! I’d forgotten about that until, you know, recently.
    Here’s to natural lemony freshness, good riddance Foodtown.
    Also, I think you should send a copy of your letter to corporate headquarters.

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