Grocery Shopping

There is no way to pinpoint the day or time it happened…that moment when grocery shopping became worse than a trip to the dentist. 

Maybe it was a culmination of a lot of different things. The carts should not be stored together if they can’t easily come apart, and once I know where my favorite products can be found- they are moved. Hide and seek has never been one of my favorite games, so stop it.

I’m sure where you shop this never happens, but there are customers who leave their cart on one side of the aisle to inspect products on the other side. They leave the aisle impassable. Some days I ooze of patience, while other days have me reliving my youth as I try my hand at bumper carts.

Today, there were two stores to visit. When I got in the car, I played some smooth jazz, listened to a little preaching, and practiced some deep breathing. 

All in all, it wasn’t too bad. There was a woman in the produce section at the first store who inspected the bell peppers like she was a customs agent. I waited patiently. She had a process. I could respect that. Putting my goods on the conveyor for checkout, a woman next to me let out a loud sigh. Apparently, she had chosen a longer line, but arrived at the checkout before me. She must have thought she should go ahead of me. Had she used her words, like a big girl, I would have obliged.

My cashier thought he needed to engage me with conversation. So he spoke about the death of Erin Moran- that it was tragic and way too soon. He then went on to wonder out loud who would die next because he firmly believed that all deaths came in threes. It was a morbid end to my first stop.

My mood perked up driving between the first and second store. My mission was almost complete, as the next list only called out six items (I got 11). The only bad thing that happened during the trip was that I almost ran into a three year old boy with my cart. In my defense, I do not speed or take crazy turns. The little darling was making mad dashes all over the store, with his mother yelling after him.

After arriving home, my sixteen year old son unloads the truck for me. All the while, he inspects the contents of the bags, deeming whether my trip was a good one. On the one hand, I hope he’s pleased. But, on the other, I think if he has a problem- he can go get his own groceries, (punk).

Over the next few days, my family will eat these new purchases, which is a mixed blessing.  My loved ones will be well-nourished, but it also ensures that my grocery-shopping days are far from over. 

And it reminds me. I better make an appointment to see the dentist.

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