I don’t like farmers markets. Some people think that has more to do with me than it does with farmers markets. But I think I make a pretty objective case.
I don’t like farmers markets because they cater to the kind of couples who wear matching fleece vests.
I don’t like farmers markets because they make a mockery of us all by selling things like rhubarb, even though no one knows any recipes that call for rhubarb. (And don’t say strawberry rhubarb pie, because I am 28 years old and have encountered that dish outside of a novel exactly once.)
I don’t like farmers markets because everyone who shops at farmers markets has already done yoga that morning. Yet somehow they didn’t sweat; their topknot still looks good and they’ve got on a great scarf. And don’t get me started on the women.
I don’t like farmers markets because I do like Starbucks, and if you cut through a farmers market on your way to buying your soy chai somewhere corporate, you feel like the sludge monster from “FernGully” who made all the trees hurt.
I don’t like farmers markets because I’m pretty sure everyone else at the farmers market has already read Anne-Marie Slaughter’s new book.
I don’t like farmers markets because you’re always the only one who doesn’t own property yet. Unlike some people, those who shop at farmers markets prioritize saving for a down payment over bottomless mimosa brunch whenever they wanted it. And they understand compound interest enough to know that yes, that $35 did matter enough to go in savings because that is how you build wealth.
I don’t like farmers markets because, not only does everyone else there own property, they also managed to acquire it while working somewhere virtuous like Emily’s List — and you can tell from their hair and their sexy laugh that they’re the real-life version of Mary Louise Parker’s character from “The West Wing.”
I don’t like farmers markets because everyone else at the farmers market always gets invited to the White House Correspondents Dinner, or, at the very least, to a swanky after-party, where they post Instagrams from the roof of the Hay-Adams and get spotted by Mike Allen.
I don’t like farmers markets because the people who shop there are also the kind who say things like: “I’m a vegetarian — except for bacon.” That’s obviously insane, but when they say it, it’s just a reminder that, in addition to being skinny, they’re also fun and low maintenance and would be the kind of sports-oriented girlfriend who’d know how to say things like “good head’s up play” and “typical Romo” at all the appropriate times.
I don’t like farmers markets because no one else who shops at farmers markets ever gets the Sunday blues. Instead of waiting anxiously for nightfall to distract them with HBO, they’re going to go home to their tastefully appointed kitchen in their rapidly appreciating condo to whip that rhubarb into a seasonally appropriate crumble. After dessert, their handsome husband is going to do the dishes without being asked because they have an equal partnership — and also, it’s actually really precious that their vests match.
I don’t like farmers markets because they’re crowded.