49 cents is the cost of one carton of eggs at Aldi’s. My conscience hardly feels right buying them that cheap.
As I shopped, my Lululemon leggings clung to my legs. They’re worth the price of one hundred eggs and then some. I can’t help but wonder if my birthday-gifted sticky pants toss me into “upper-class.” When I’m not practically committing highway robbery at the grocery store, I spend most of my days working freelance at the public library. At the library, they don’t ask you to pay rent in the form of a spiced drink. The place demands nothing of me, except that I be still for a minute. Although, when I chose to, I know I can easily fit into the foliage-clad, geometrically-lettered coffee shop metropolis. You know, the one chock full of seemingly-put-together adults, adorned with understated name brands and armed with dayplanners? You know the one. Where am I supposed to sit, as a young woman more in reach of the status symbols than the actual status they imply? Do I strive to become the young professional who actually can afford the spiced latte rent, leaving the humble assortment of pages and people behind? Should I intend to be the type of person who does not need to occupy spaces where the homeless sit as unpaid greeters? What would I lose in return if I became the person who could afford 3 dollar cage-free eggs and choose to buy them somewhere other than Aldi’s? Would it cost me more than 49 cents?
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creative writerAbigail writes to capture precious moments, important feelings, and societal musings. Having fun and overcoming perfectionism on the side. Reach out to share ideas and swap pieces! Archives
October 2019
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