I Hate Grocery Shopping

I don’t like grocery #shopping. There is something about walking into a herd of overweight people (me included,) that is tantamount to strolling through a running car wash. Here is an example of what I mean. About four hours ago we realized we were out of bread. Being my husband was cooking, he asked me to run to the store to pick up bread. The closest store to us is a huge #WalMart frequented by every tourist to ever hit #Florida. It is less than three minutes from the house.

Explaining I am headed to Wal-Mart should give readers a visual they won’t be able to gouge out of their minds. Seriously, Wal-Mart’s unwritten dress code alone should keep people from entering. But, NO, it is the closest place to me and when I go to the grocery store I NEED to be close as I don’t like to grocery shop. So in I go.

I am just inside the door when the #greeter decides he wants to help me with a cart. I am in a hurry, as I always am, so I put my hand up to say “No thank you, I just need bread.” He thinks I want to high five; though I am not sure his eyes even rose above my chest to see my hand. The man was at least 103 years old and cut a fine hunched-back figure in his bright blue vest. His thin white hair looked as though he’d just stuck his finger in a light socket. Starting toward the carts, he shot me a sideways grin that assured me he was on that cart he wanted me to have.

I spoke up, “Sir, I am only buying a loaf of #bread, so I don’t need a cart.” He shuffles another six inches and I know I’ll be dead before he makes it back. “Sir?” I say, a little louder this time, “I don’t need a cart!” I am trying to be polite, but by now, one hundred thirty-two people have passed me by. I just want to get my loaf of bread. and leave. The old man is still seventeen feet from the carts. Eighteen minutes have passed since I entered the store.

I can’t take it anymore and rush past him to the bread aisle, which is just beyond the carts. I grab the first loaf of bread I see, give it a quick squeeze and head toward the self-check out #aisle. They are all closed.

I take my place behind a lovely couple. She is dressed in #pajamas. He has a plumber’s crack that goes from his neck to his knees. I waited patiently as the checker scannedw atheir groceries and proceeded to tell them her life story. Thirty-six minutes later, the couple hugged the checker goodbye and I aready to get that Sunbeam white bread scanned when my phone rings. It is my husband and I knew what is coming.

You see, my husband looked at grocery shopping like it was a golf outing. He thought it should be a pleasurable meander. I allowed the phone to ring in my hand as I glanced at the loaf of white bread and then back at the phone. It rang incessantly like he was standing behind me with a sinister grin on his face. I ignored it and passed my lonely bread loaf to the checker. The phone rang again. Resigned that he’d punch my number until I answered, I dropped my head to my chest and said hello. The checker had already started to repeat her life story to me.

“While your there, Honey,” my husband said innocently, “can you pick up some tomatoes, garlic, Italian seasoning, mild Italian sausage, penne pasta and fresh mushrooms?”

“You’ve already made a rump roast tonight. Can’t we get this tomorrow?” I retorted. Sweat had formed on my brow and across the room, I saw the old man with the cart had finally turned around and was heading back toward the spot where he’d left me. Hunched over, I knew he couldn’t see me, so I felt safe for the moment. The checker was midway into her life story.

“It’s for tomorrow night,” my husband said.

“Have we inviting the Gotti family or something?” I asked. “Can’t we eat leftovers? I’m already being checked out.” I pled the best I knew how.

“Okay, we’ll go tomorrow,” he said, like THAT was going to happen.

Another fifteen minutes passed as the checker tried to finish her life story clutching my bread to her chest. I wondered if I would ever actually get to eat it at this rate. A young couple behind me decided to take the passing moments to make a baby. It was like a car wreck and I found myself unable to look away for all the groaning and moaning going on. Finally, I heard the checker say, “Well, have a nice day!” the conclusion I’d been waiting for. Two hours and thirty-two minutes had passed.

I grabbed the bag and ran toward the door just in time for the old man to look up. “Here’s your cart, Miss,” he said shooting me a wink and thinking I had waited for him. I took the cart and pushed it outside, leaving the metal container in the middle of a parking space like everyone else did.

Sprinting through the parking lot to my car, I watched a banged up Buick roll into my path. I jumped between two cars to avoid being hit. I couldn’t see anyone driving the car, which is not unusual in Florida. I grumbled under my breath, threw the loaf of bread onto the seat beside me and made for home.

The next morning, the news headline read, “Man Dies in Wal-Mart Parking Lot.” Seems he’d just come out of the store, got in his banged up Buick and had a heart attack. From my viewpoint, a better explanation would be that he arrived at Wal-Mart a teenager and came out a senior citizen just trying to buy a loaf of bread.

The next time my husband asks me to run to the store, I’m not going.