Life is going. I’m sad. I’m okay. This forty-five dollar purchase from Wal-Mart encapsulates my life right now: two pairs of sweatpants, an inflatable raccoon, two cans of Pringles, waffles, and milk. This is the most Wal-Mart purchase at Wal-Mart, ever. At least for me. It’s some kind of personal record.
I’ve discovered wearing sweatpants and the healing, comforting powers therein. I didn’t own a single pair until now. (I’m more of a fan of athletic shorts for couch-crashing.) But in these past few weeks of mourning, watching television, and eating junk food, I realized I needed to up my game. If I’m going to do something — like completely give up on myself — I needed to do it properly.
I need sweatpants. I had that exact thought one afternoon, during one of my long emotional spells of staring. That’s one thing I’ve learned — in grieving, staring is its own emotion. It’s not just an action — it’s a full-body-consuming feeling. It’s like a worse form of depression. At least with depression, you can attempt to move through life. In a state of staring, you can’t even move.
Anyhow, the idea of sweatpants suddenly came to me, and it felt like a life raft. I felt like I’d been given a divine mission from God to go get sweatpants. And Wal-Mart suddenly seemed like a warm, loving friend. The fluorescent lights kissed my face and the closely-cramped racks of camouflaged thermal underwear hugged me. I trudged my way back to the WALL OF SWEATPANTS. Yes! The WALL OF SWEATPANTS exists! And it’s a mecca-land for all who seek it. And my God, do people seek it. It has now been scientifically proven by me, based on my Saturday night observations, that this IS the busiest square foot of Wal-Mart.
Snapped out of my staring void, I had a sudden rush of blood to the head. I felt euphoric. I’m in Wal-Mart and I can buy stuff. Holy fucking shit, I’m in Wal-Mart and I can buy stuff!
I’ve gone on record about how much I hate inflatable lawn ornaments in the past, but I was vulnerable. A three-and-a-half-foot raccoon in a Santa hat for TWENTY DOLLARS seemed like a steal.
I could have done a lot worse in the state I was in. And in fact, I did.
There’s impulse purchases, and then there’s morbid purchases. Pecan Pie-flavored and White Chocolate-flavored Pringles fall into the latter category. I will now review these for you.
Pecan Pie Pringles: Nope. Whole lot of nope. They are terrible. They are beyond terrible. They’re like woodsy, waxy, and buttery, all at once, combined on a potato chip with a dash of cinnamon. NOPE.
And the wife’s review (without trying them): Oh my god, just looking at the cans makes me feel like vomiting.
White Chocolate Pringles: I keep finding myself eating these. But don’t tell the wife, because her review is (again, without trying them): don’t even tell me when you eat them, because that fact alone will make me feel like vomiting.
They’re not terrible. I wouldn’t recommend them. But if you find yourself unable to leave the house, wearing sweatpants, and staring, they might just pull you out of the funk for a few minutes.