Breaking up with Blue Apron
It started like any romance—I gave her a coupon for thirty percent off, then my credit card number and address, known allergies, social security number, and blood type.
It started like any romance—I gave her a coupon for thirty percent off, then my credit card number and address, known allergies, social security number, and blood type.
Faced with the incontrovertible decay of my body, I did what any aging millennial does—turn to the pseudoscience of the age and go on a cleanse.
After I signed a waiver that confirmed I wouldn’t sue Equinox if I died on the treadmill or passed out because I saw Blake Lively, we entered the immaculate studio.
Will cried when the sentences turned to me. “I’m just going to say one thing,” he said, and he had to stop for a while. “Because you’ll know what I mean by it,” and he had to stop again.
The bottom line, though, is that I failed at this assignment.
To get something straight, eating the same thing is boring as all hell. I gained a measure of satisfaction from it, of course, or else I wouldn’t have done it.
A few weeks ago, Grandma fell in her bedroom. She pulled a bookcase down on top of her, breaking several ribs and pushing her further down “the road” than she had been before.
My first meal off the plane, jet-lagged as I was, consisted of No. 1 Grange Road’s “Haggis, Neeps, and Tatties Tower.”
I set a few rules—my “day” on the bus would last eight hours, but would include walking to, from, and between buses.
Dear M,
I hope you are enjoying life in Oregon. I am trying very hard not to miss you. Sometimes, it works.