Salmon Is Not That Deep, Karen

Our Sunday morning started as our old Sunday mornings used to start. Coffee, reading, and brunch and beer at Steel Hands. Brunch was bliss—tangerine sours, fried mac n’ cheese bites, great music and the quiet camaraderie that we used to take for granted. For a hot second, I thought life was back to normal.

So when we decided to swing by the grocery store on the way home, I thought, What a lovely, simple Sunday.

Spoiler alert: It was not.

Nothing says “reality check” like a grocery store on Sunday morning. We thought we were clever, slipping in before the post-church stampede. Cute, right?

Wrong.

The second we walked through those sliding glass doors, a toddler let out a banshee wail that could shatter glass and maybe Mariah Carey’s confidence. Fine. Kids exist. I knew the risk. But by the time we cleared the produce section, I realized this wasn’t going to be a let’s-browse-the-salad-dressing-aisle-and-feel-chill kind of trip.

No, friends. This was a divide-and-conquer mission.

So I sent Mike to grab salmon. Simple enough, right? WRONG.

Mike gets to the seafood counter, and who’s there? Karen. Of course her name isn’t actually Karen, but if the orthopedic sandal fits…

And Karen isn’t just ordering fish. No. She’s hosting a Seafood Symposium. She needs 50 pounds of salmon—but first, she wants to deep-dive with the seafood guy about the metaphysical virtues of farm-raised versus wild-caught.

Ma’am. You are at Publix in South Carolina, not on the deck of a fishing boat in Alaska. Grab your fish and GO.

Meanwhile, I’ve cleared pickles, sauces, and salad toppings, and I swing back to check on Mike. Guess who’s still there? Karen. Guess who’s still talking? Karen. And now there’s a line forming, and we are all silently dying inside.

She’s asking questions like:

“So…is the wild-caught more spiritually aligned with sustainable energy?”

Ma’am. It’s a fish. It does not have a LinkedIn profile.

At this point, I’m giving her my fiercest death stare—the kind that says, If you don’t move, I will fillet YOU and sauté you with lemon and dill. She doesn’t even flinch. She just keeps yammering about omega-3s like she’s hosting a TED Talk.

I used to laugh at stuff like this. Roll my eyes, text a friend, and move on. But now? Here’s what no one tells you about PTSD: it doesn’t always look like flashbacks or panic attacks.

Sometimes it looks like this.

You can be having a glorious day, soaking up your people, loving life—and then BAM—something small, something completely harmless, detonates your peace.

Suddenly the fluorescent lights are buzzing in your skull. The freezer fans hum like static in your chest. The sound of Karen’s voice feels like nails on glass, and the air is too loud, too bright, too much.

That’s what they don’t tell you—how an ordinary Sunday can turn into a war zone inside your own head.

Here’s the truth, though: nothing is “wrong” here. My nervous system has just been on constant high alert for so long, and my patience is razor thin. My brain goblin has been activated, and I am one Publix seafood TED Talk away from snapping.

Salmon is just not that deep, Karen. Grab your fish and GTFO.

Next week? I’m Instacarting. For everyone’s safety. Because salmon might not be deep—but peace of mind? That’s priceless.