Manhattan's Wegmans Made Me Cry Three Times

It was a perfect New York Sunday - made even more special by the fact that it was Marathon Day. The nip in the air, the sun in the sky, dreams coming true, etc, etc. M and I were having a date day - farmer’s market, walk to the Strand, basketball, and a crockpot soup. Yes, we’re secretly 75. 

We were halfway to the Strand when we passed the new Astor Place Wegmans and remembered its existence. Its wonderful, magnificent existence. “We don’t have to buy anything, let’s just look around,” I said. We took a selfie to commemorate then stepped through the sliding doors. Needless to say, it was incredible and I cried twice while we were inside. TL;DR, we found a flavor of Ben and Jerry’s we’d been searching for for literal months, so how was I not to weep for joy? 

As we left, I realized I couldn’t really speak. I was “in the weeds,” as they say. “Let’s just walk and soak it in,” I said, and M grabbed my hand and we walked. I stopped a few blocks later and just stood. And then I cried. Again, Christ, I know. 

I know now that I was crying from relief. 

It’s no secret that New York is not my favorite place. And it got really clear for me yesterday that that may be because it’s so hard to be in recovery here. Recovery from my concussions, the disordered eating that came with them, and everything else.

New York is branded as the “big” city, the “find anything you want” city, the “we do it best” city. But, to fit all of that in, our food is treated like we are - squeezed and sqinched into the smallest package possible, for a rental premium. Single sleeve oreos, miniature coke cans, single-serve, half-size, New York City small. 

But the new Wegmans is expansive. It takes up space. It lets you breathe. It has brand names and spin-offs, fresh, frozen, and to-go. It’s Whole Foods but accessible, it’s TJ’s but with options and without recalls. M and I walked around for 20 minutes and were truly inspired.

Standing on that corner in M’s arms as she listened to me piece it together, I realized that I’d needed a taste of familiar. I’d been slipping dangerously close to chicken tenders, and almost realized it too late. What I needed was to be transported. My tree-hugging suburban ass needed a normal freaking grocery store. 

There’s hope yet for this season.

As Always,

Stephanie