Time in quarantine has been making me more retrospective- especially concerning seemingly silly things. For instance, I have been pondering the single red bell pepper I bought at the farmer's market two weekends ago.
Thinking back to that day, I remember strolling around, outside for the first time in weeks in a slouchy sweatsuit I had been wearing for who knows how long. The sun was hot enough, it seemed, to almost steam out their wrinkles. Lethargic, retail therapy whispered eagerly to me at every passing sale sign and lit up shopfront decorating downtown State College. The contents of my dwindling wallet cried out in protest to their insistent reassurances tugging at me; buy this, you’ll feel better.
Craving the comfort that accompanies sweet-smelling boutiques, luscious aisles of soft fragments of clothing, and the promise of renewal, I wandered listlessly in front of every glossy window. Hungrily, I would gaze in. As if gawking at the mannequin displays clad in the clothes I coveted would suffice my want enough. The longing would pass eventually, and in return, I would drag my resistant feet to the next display. That is, until I came across an entirely new spread of potential prospects, refreshing in its novelty and abruptness-- the Farmer’s Market.
I faintly remembered that it was Friday, indeed. At this time I am habitually still swaddled in the cocoon of my bed. Once I wake, I fall into the routine of thinking to myself, the farmer’s market would have been nice to visit if only I had the energy to go.
On the contrary, the street consumed by run-down trucks and buzzing onlookers practically ate me up in its vigorous commotion. Strolling down the outdoor aisles, the restrictive shopfront windows had vanished. I was suddenly immersed in the addictive activity of shopping. Everything was appealing and beautiful in its unrefined way: the vibrantly arranged flower bouquets, the quirky cactus plants, and at last, the dirt-smudged produce. Initially, I was lured to the lovely anemone and dahlia, but I persisted in keeping up the resolve that I maintained earlier-- which was to not spend carelessly.
Fruits and vegetables it was. I bought the most mundane and cheap item, consisting of a single red bell pepper.
Pleased with my decision, the pepper tucked away pleasantly within my grasp. I walked the rest of the way home, salivating at the idea of stuffed pepper dishes and fajita chicken sautés. Not only had I spent my money reasonably, but I had invested in the health of myself and of local farmers! When I arrived home I buried the pepper into its current resting place, the drawer reserved for mostly neglected grocery items at the bottom of my fridge.
It exists as still and stagnant as I have felt during most of the quarantine, although no amount of manufactured cold can keep something fresh forever. As the days diminished I flirted with the dishes I conjured inside my head on that walk home, but I always resorted to the box rice or canned soup options instead.
At some point, I had forgotten about the pepper entirely, or rather, I had blocked it out of my consideration. That was until my subtly repulsed roommates today unearthed it's now tarnished existence while digging through the silent detestable drawer.
Collection Inclination and Waste
Understand that my roommates have a certain proclivity for tossing food at the point of spoil into the trash with no attachments (as they probably should). The rotting pepper in the back of my fridge was certain to be on their radar for weeks leading up to its rediscovery, and I was dreading the thought.
I recall how formerly I was just as careless. Campus meals freshman year would be brimming to the ceiling with a variety of buffet-style entrees, sides, fruits, and desserts. Every night I would scrape the generous remains of my plate into the dark abysses of composting bins. Fastened right above them I would behold the flyers constructed by green campus initiatives, broadcasting the horrendous statistic still ingrained within my mind-- 80 billion pounds of food are wasted each year in the US (“Food Waste in America in 2020: Statistics & Facts: RTS”). I would gulp this information down culpably with the absence of swallowing each crumb on my plate as I should have.
Another implanted memory is the TLC show Hoarding: Buried Alive. My younger self would watch this show in horrified interest, captivated by the surmounting piles of forgotten trash; simultaneously, I was perplexed by the greedy clutches of its owners. The clutter busters would hold up each dull, essentially worthless looking item as a potential for the trash. In response, the owner would stubbornly shake their head with a resounding no, not today. What held them back was a fond past memory or an expected use for the future. Although, it was clear that these anticipated ideas were handicapped by their resting place-- a graveyard of other items, also adorning endless histories and potential. It becomes disturbingly clear how suffocated and hopeless the cause essentially is.
What provokes someone to collect so much, to the point where it obstructs any opportunity for progress? Furthermore, if you hardly pay attention to something, why is it so hard to let it go? Personal business writer Bryan Borzykowski attributes the impulse to buy as an aversion to loss. Simply walking into a store or testing a car can generate feelings of ownership, which entices people to immediately feel the need to buy. He explains in a BBC article, “when loss aversion kicks in — a theory that people can’t bear to lose money or goods — it becomes difficult to let go, regardless of whether you need or can afford the item.” (Borzykowski). Considering this feeling of ownership before even purchasing an item, no wonder Hoarders are so reluctant to release these items that they have touched, owned, and fantasized about for an inescapable time.
I am not a Hoarder (I hope), but sometimes I imagine the retail therapy whispers are similar to what they experience. There is something so comforting about purchasing items to reward or stabilize the demanding stress of every day. This resistance to tossing the rotting pepper in my fridge or cleaning anything, in general, is a similar sensation to the sluggish procrastination I must force myself past on a daily basis.
The Shopping and Scrolling Addiction
I would rather stack my work assignments, purchase more and more, cram that fridge drawer to the brim if it means I will never have to confront the disturbing image of rotting peppers sitting at the bottom, or the reality that I am drowning along with them in responsibilities. This rotation of avoidance connects to the article by journalist Sam Kemmis, Procrastination Isn’t a Time Management Problem, It’s an Emotional Problem. Kemmis references Tim Pychyl, a psychology professor at Carlton University, who determined procrastination as a tendency to avoid tasks because of the negative emotions they elicit (Kemmis).
Homework and laundry are daunting tasks compared to the mind-numbing, serotonin cloning effects of scrolling through my phone instead. Watching endless loops of TikTok is comparable to what I could call “fake happiness.” After enduring long hours of it, I feel hollow and worn. The euphoria is cheap, it wears off like the new on a freshly purchased sweater.
Yet, the more burdensome the chore is that I have been pushing off for so long, the more relieved I feel after completing it. I am proud of the work I have accomplished. Therefore, why do I have it wired in my brain to seek instant gratification every time instead? Because it is easy, as simple as the swipe of a credit card; the gleeful ding that follows, reassuring you that this item you get to leave with is the promise you have been looking for amidst the long list of tasks you still need to do.
I purchased the pepper that day, hoping that it’s Vitamin C and dirt smudges would replenish the nutritional deficiency in my body. I told myself it was for that reason, anyway. Even so, when I placed it in the drawer so long ago I might as well have thrown a lock on it and tossed the key because when dinner time came around I found myself craving take-out food instead. The next day I found a box of mac and cheese, quick and easy. I made excuses until it no longer posed as necessary because the conundrum got covered with other produce my roommates lugged home. Out of sight, out of mind.
The only problems that can be resolved are the ones that stare you in the face with ugliness the way that moldy, brown turning black pepper resurfaced today. The guilt I staved off for trying and never fulfilling, and never paying full attention in the first place to make a real effort, materialized along with its discovery. Perhaps this sounds familiar, with so many overwhelming problems (social, political, environmental, cultural, etc.) all simultaneously forcing their agenda in the news and media (Kraus). Especially with the pandemic, an increasing number of people are suffering from burnout while they reside in their homes with the news blaring updates nonstop (Lindberg).
We are living in a climate where information is difficult to trust, and there is an influx of information to digest with difficulty. In the morning I struggle to balance these overlapping issues, all aggressively claiming my participation. I resort to scrolling social media, or sleeping longer, or shopping, sometimes with good intentions for my health.
It is easier to let the pepper rot. At least, until the inevitable- when it starts to stink.
Works Cited
Borzykowski, Bryan. “Why Does Shopping Feel so Good?” BBC Worklife, BBC, 15 Mar. 2015,
“Food Waste in America in 2020: Statistics & Facts: RTS.” Recycle Track Systems, 2020,
Kemmis, Sam. “Procrastination Isn't a Time Management Problem, It's an Emotional Problem.”
Zapier, Zapier, 12 May 2020, zapier.com/blog/procrastination-emotion/.
Kraus, Rachel. “Americans Are Totally Overwhelmed by the News.” Mashable, Mashable, 4
Sara Lindberg, M.Ed. “Is Watching the News Bad for Mental Health?” Verywell Mind, 18 May
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