A Quick Practice Podcast Ep.1

Have you ever seen any dinosaurs wandering around in a grocery store? I haven’t.

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Hi, I’m Yi, and this is A Quick Practice, a podcast where I share simple practices I’ve found in everyday life.

This week, I’ve been practicing imagining other people’s lives, inspired by overhearing a conversation about dinosaurs.

If you’re up for it, please close your eyes with me and picture a grocery store you rarely visit but can still recall — maybe you remember the way the aisles are set up, the produce section, the frozen foods, the canned goods, or even just the smell of the bakery. Or maybe it’s just the overall vibe of the place that sticks with you.

There’s probably some small, slightly annoying reason you don’t go there often.

Maybe your not-so-favorite boss lives nearby. Or perhaps it’s someone you fell for—someone you shouldn’t have—who lives next door. It might be that the air conditioning is always just a tad too warm or slightly too cold.

Or perhaps once, you bought an avocado from that store that simply refused to ripen, even after three, almost four weeks. In the end, you had to peel it, chop it into chunks, and bake it. That lukewarm, slightly bitter avocado mush left you feeling resentful—toward the store, the avocados, the oven, and even yourself.

Well, actually, after I drizzled some hot sauce on it, it didn’t taste so bad. So maybe I shouldn’t blame the grocery store or the avocado—it was just the way things turned out. I mean, I guess avocados are like people; we all have very different personalities. I probably should've done a bit more research on both avocados and people.

Okay, anyway, I’m getting sidetracked. The point is, this isn’t your go-to grocery store.

Oh, and if you’re driving, walking, biking, rock climbing, or deep diving—whether it's in the ocean or into any topic of your choice—or even watching popcorn in the microwave, eagerly waiting for that first kernel to pop, please don’t close your eyes. Enjoy the moment, and let’s find another way to step into this imagined grocery store.

Pop!

Have you ever had that feeling? Like, no matter when or where you hear that pop of popcorn—even if it’s not real popcorn, not a real pop—whether it’s through a speaker, a screen, or from far away, you can still instantly sense that popcorn smell?

Just a tiny pop can bring back the most vivid memories.

Maybe you find yourself yearning for that little pop, hoping it’s the sound of happiness, luck, love, family, friendship, wealth, or a beautiful future. You hold onto a bit of hope, counting down in your heart, convinced that one day you’ll hear that sound.

The anticipation builds, yet a sense of calm washes over you. You turn around, searching for the source, fully convinced that once you hear it, you’ll be happy forever, joyful forever, and never feel empty again. 'Where is it?' you ask yourself. 'Where’s that sound?'

'Let me hear it, please let me hear it,' you think, walking down a crowded street with noise-canceling headphones on.

I think like this often. Sometimes, I even believe I’ve heard something.

Did you hear it? Have you heard it before?

Hmm, where was I? Oh, right. So, forget about what I said before—let's pretend this is your favorite grocery store now. You like the jingles that never change, day after day, enthusiastically announcing the best deals and freshest products, even though everyone knows the prices are pretty much the same as at any other store.

You’ve walked into this store in all kinds of moods and situations. On happy days, when you were starving, during seasonal depression, or right after leaving the pool, with the smell of chlorine still clinging to your hair.

Every time you realize you have a favorite grocery store, you feel a little embarrassed.

'I actually have a favorite grocery store?' you chuckle to yourself, standing in front of the cereal aisle, holding your wet swimsuit.

You’ve never really been into cereal, granola, oats, or cornflakes—it’s the sugar-coated nuts and dried cranberries in the mixed ones that you secretly love. And you know you’ll never tell anyone that.

Whenever you step inside, the smell of takeout and freshly baked bread energizes you to push your shopping cart through the aisles. It puts you at ease. Smell that? Fresh sourdough from the oven. Oh, and cookies... just baked. But, of course—ew, they’re oatmeal raisins. You’ve always wanted to try the store’s coffee, even though it’s notoriously terrible.

You’ve never felt bored in this grocery store—how could you?

You’re content. Unlike other little things in life, you have no lofty expectations for this place. There were a few times, especially during terrible weather or lockdowns, when everyone grabbed anything they could, leaving you unable to find the groceries you planned to buy. Yet, you’ve never felt truly disappointed here. You feel fulfilled. These thirty minutes each week are your favorite, and you never tire of this sense of contentment.

Thinking about it almost makes you want to cry. Contentment, really, is all I’m looking for. I don’t need more—I just want to feel 'content.'

I’m not asking for too much, am I? Doubt begins to creep in.

You recall a few weeks ago at a birthday party, where some of your friends, a group of art film aficionados, were passionately debating the narrative styles of various directors. Meanwhile, another group, the camping enthusiasts, shared their favorite stories and profound personal insights—spiritual awakenings under quiet starry skies and cool autumn breezes.

Of course, you could’ve chimed in. You always could. The truth is, in many areas, your friends regard you as someone with unique insights and refined 'taste.' At the very least, they’ve never mocked your opinions to your face. Even when you choose silence, they never assume it's due to ignorance.

Right? That film was great, wasn’t it? The shots and the story were so deep," your friend remarked, seemingly seeking your validation.

You offered a few thoughts: "Yeah, it was really good. That film reminded me of another movie, a poetry collection, a few paintings, and some music with a similar theme. The only thing that might need some tweaking are a few lines that felt a bit disconnected from reality..." As you spoke, you thought to yourself, God, that was the most boring movie ever. Who in the world would watch something so pretentious?

You would.

You would watch it, your friends would watch it, and all the cinephiles out there—full of curiosity and never fully satisfied by mainstream films—would watch it.

But honestly, you just wanted to go back to the grocery store, back to your little world, back to those thirty minutes of contentment.

"Ah, yeah, just like you said, you’re right. There really are so many common threads between these works," your friend replied.

You smiled at your friend, nodding along to their rhythm. "Yes, exactly, I agree." You set down the pretentious tiny plates you were holding—the tiny dish, the tiny cup, the tiny fork, the tiny hors d'oeuvres, and along with them, your tiny, easily shattered ego.

You walked toward the door, stepped outside, and couldn’t believe you’d actually done it. You power-walked through the dimly lit street, eventually breaking into a full sprint. You couldn’t stop laughing. You were genuinely happy, a type of joy you hadn’t felt in ages—unmarred by underlying sorrow.

The phone in your pocket rings—it must be your friends calling. But you have no intention of answering. You simply don’t care.

You know where you want to go. You know your destination.

Breathing heavily, you run into the grocery store. It’s a busy weekend night, and the store is packed.

You grab a shopping basket, suddenly struck by a nagging feeling. Is it guilt? No, you’re not sorry for leaving the party. It’s something else—what exactly is it?

You pause in front of the shelf stocked with toilet paper, picking up a package of kitchen paper towels to read the label. You already have four bags at home, but you’ve always had a peculiar obsession with paper towels. If there are fewer than five bags, you feel unsettled. It’s an odd attachment, maybe a bit unhealthy, a little unnatural. But you convince yourself that this is your only vice; you “deserve a few weird addictions,” you tell yourself.

You toss two bags of kitchen paper towels into your basket, followed by a few bottles of soda. Quietly, you think to yourself, Oh, I know how wasteful bottled drinks are, but I deserve a couple of truly bad habits, like being environmentally unfriendly.

As you approach the long line at the checkout counter, your happiness dims slightly at the sight. You really hate waiting in line.

But you like the cashier who’s always there, always smiling and kind. Every time you hear their voice, you have to resist the urge to compliment them. You really want to ask, “Why are you here? What did I do to deserve hearing such a beautiful voice?”

So many times, you’ve taken the receipt they handed you, along with their warm smile. Each time, you tell yourself, I’m sure plenty of people have already complimented them. They don’t need one more from me. And if I actually said it, they’d think I was weird. I don’t want to become the weird customer in their eyes.

What kind of compliment would be considered strange? What kind of compliment could someone accept without feeling pressured? And without thinking it’s a critique of their current situation? What kind of compliment can avoid the message, “Ah, it’s such a shame. You deserve better. You don’t deserve to be living like this.”

This world could’ve been better because of your kindness and talent, but now?

So now what?

What happens next?

In front of you stands a parent-child duo—father? Uncle? Older brother? Completely unrelated strangers? It doesn’t really matter; in your mind, they’re a father and son, both clearly fed up with waiting in line.

The adult pulls out his phone to pass the time, while the child fishes an avocado out of the basket and starts peeling off its sticker. Is that okay? you can’t help but wonder.

But since the adult doesn’t seem to mind, neither will you. You watch as the child carefully sticks the peeled label onto the shopping basket, while the adult scrolls through a long list of photos, news, and pauses to read a few comments.

As they approach the checkout counter, the child asks, “Dad, who invented dinosaurs?”

“Who invented dinosaurs?” the father repeats, slightly bemused.

“Hmm, who invented them?”

You’re almost tempted to interject, Dinosaurs weren’t invented!

The father begins to answer, pausing to chuckle at a meme he’s looking at online.

“Dinosaurs are invented by AI now because dinosaurs went extinct a long time ago. So, the dinosaurs you see today are all imagined by computers.” After answering, he begins typing a response into the comments section below the meme.

“Oh, so dinosaurs are invented by AI.”

“Yeah,” the father responds, still checking for typos in his comment.

How serious is this conversation?

The friendly cashier starts ringing up the items for the father and son. Noticing the avocado label in the basket, the cashier simply smiles at the child and refrains from commenting.

You muse that one day, this child will learn that dinosaurs weren’t invented by AI. And that not every avocado will ripen. You realize you don’t really need to worry about a stranger’s school-aged child; there’s a good chance he’ll grow up to be a better person than you—free from an obsession with paper towels, without the ambiguity and hypocrisy of environmental consciousness, never running away from their own birthday party.

“Yes, today is my birthday. ‘Hey, happy birthday to me,’ did you hear that?

Hey, did you hear that? If you did, could you make a little noise to respond?”

Of course, you don’t need to worry about the future of dinosaurs either. Except for the gecko you saw hunting patiently in the corner recently, the future of dinosaurs is already set.

You think to yourself, “Let me pretend that I’ll be a well-known celebrity. Maybe when that child grows up, he’ll use AI to imagine my future too. Maybe he’ll tell his children, ‘Yeah, that paper towel enthusiast famous for loving grocery stores went extinct a long time ago, so the person you see now is just an AI creation.’”

As the father and son finish their shopping and leave the store, the cashier kindly greets you.

Next time. Next time, you’ll muster the courage to talk to the cashier.

Thank you so much for listening to "A Quick Practice." See you next week.