Would anybody like to go to the grocery store for me? I will pay you.
I’m not sure why I hate grocery stores. Perhaps it’s because I’m like someone who doesn’t own a computer going to the Apple Store. I walk in the sliding doors with my basket and feel like a fish out of water.
I hear hisses from the others in the store who know I don’t belong there.
The spices mock me as I pass by. I hear them saying, “You don’t know what I’m used for, do you? You have NO IDEA what dishes require my spiciness.”
The fresh vegetables scorn me. “You didn’t feed me to your children, did you? You don’t eat me now, do you? You eat green beans out of the can, and steam corn in bags in your microwave. You’re filled with MSG and other chemicals. Good job.”
The eggs and milk dread being picked by me. “We’re going to go bad in your refrigerator, aren’t we? You just buy us for looks, then toss us out the next time you shop. We know who you are.”
The bread backs away. “I’m going to grow mold on your counter while you bring in Arbys and Subway. I’m not the real loafer around here.”
There are only two aisles in the grocery store that celebrate when they see me coming – the chip/soda aisle and the frozen food section. They get me. For a brief moment, I am in control, pulling the perfect snack food and understanding the difference between Mountain Dew and Vault.
Once I’ve picked up my forty frozen single pizzas and three Lean Cuisines (again, for looks) I go to the checkout aisle. The cashiers don’t even ask if I have any coupons. They know I don’t, and if I did I would have left them at home in the file called ‘COUPONS’ that I bought so I’d never forget them.
Well, it’s Saturday. It’s that time. I’m girding my loins, gathering my coins, and heading to my hell. Wish me luck.