the $20 salad

I don't understand how this happens.

I walk into a grocery store with the best of intentions. Today, I tell myself, I'm going to make good choices. No burger. No pizza. No tacos. No giant plate of something covered in cheese.

Today, I am having a salad.

I approach the salad bar like a responsible adult. A little spring mix. Some romaine. Maybe a handful of spinach because apparently that's what healthy people do.

Then come the toppings.

Sunflower seeds.

Croutons.

Olives.

Cucumbers.

A hard-boiled egg.

Maybe another hard-boiled egg because protein is important.

A little Caesar dressing.

Nothing crazy. No lobster tail. No caviar. No gold flakes.

Just salad.

Then I place the container on the scale.

Twenty dollars.

Twenty.

Dollars.

How did I accidentally build a down payment?

I haven't even grabbed a drink yet.

The worst part is that I still buy it because I've already committed. Once you've spent ten minutes assembling a salad worthy of architectural review, you're not putting it back.

So I pay my twenty dollars and begin the next phase of the modern lunch experience: rushing.

Rushing back to work.

Rushing to make it before the next meeting.

Rushing to eat.

Rushing to answer emails while chewing.

Rushing because apparently lunch is no longer a meal. It's a scheduled interruption.

Then, forty-five minutes later, something magical happens.

I'm hungry again.

How?

I just ate a salad the size of a throw pillow.

I consumed enough roughage to qualify as landscaping material.

Yet somehow my stomach is already asking what's next.

Meanwhile, if I had eaten Chinese food, I'd still be thinking about it at dinner.

If I had eaten a burger, I'd be contemplating life from my desk chair.

If I had eaten tacos, I'd be perfectly content.

But the salad? The salad costs more than all of them and somehow leaves me wondering if I should have packed an emergency sandwich.

Look, I like salads.

I genuinely do.

They're fresh. They're crisp. They make me feel like I have my life together.

But if I'm paying twenty dollars for leaves and cucumbers, I feel like the cashier should at least hand me a small trophy and a certificate acknowledging my commitment to wellness.

Because at those prices, healthy eating starts to feel less like nutrition and more like a luxury subscription service.