Grocery Shopping
Zombies, Hunter-gatherers, or No Self-awareness?
Grocery shopping is perhaps one of my most vexing chores. I can't quite decide if grocery shopping is preparation for the zombie apocalypse or if I'm the only person in the store with any self-awareness. Most people at the grocery store already appear to be zombiefied.
Every time I visit the grocery store I start off with a positive attitude. I visualize myself a happy person traversing the aisles, wishing everyone a most wondrous day. That vision ends; I have entered the parking lot. All of a sudden I’m in Bangladesh driving through the most arduous traffic trying to avoid rickshaws, buses, taxis, and whatever else I watched on the Travel Channel. I breathe deep. I picture myself being the bigger person in the parking lot. I can let the absentminded 20 something staring at his iPhone with supreme confidence that he won't be hit, cross the parking lot aisle. Secretly, I want to honk and scare the shit of him, I don’t.
Once I make it out of my car I scavenge for a properly working shopping cart, but with the stress of the Amazing Race upon my shoulders I go for the nearest one. This isn't before I get one of those disinfecting wipes and clean the handle on the shopping cart. Apparently, loads of people poop, don’t wash their hands, and head to the grocery store.
Inside there is no time to get my bearings. I’m here every week. I head to the meat aisle first. I know exactly what I want. Farm raised organic chicken breasts. I’m being blocked. She’s looking at other things, not my breasts, but still in my way. She has no self-awareness. She sees me looking at the breasts. She doesn't move. I say excuse me. I barely get an acknowledgement. She turns to her husband and asks what he feels like. Steak. She moves upon confirmation that we are no longer in competition for the same food source. Primal.
Next on the list is bread, located at the Disneyland part of the store, also known as the cereal aisle. I leave my cart parked outside of the aisle for this one. This is usually were you find the herd shoppers. I do more weaving in this aisle than a receiver trying to reach the next yard. There is the mom with the shopping cart dead center of the aisle for all to go around, I choose to go to the left. Then one of her kids is coming at me with a box of Fruit Loops to his chest, I go to the right. Then there is another mom heading towards my directions with a shopping cart and behind her, her mini shopper with a kid shopping cart of her own. Left, right, I don't know this time. Finally, right. I get my seven dollar Dave's Killer Bread and rush out of the aisle.
Now I need milk and Greek yogurt. The milk part was without incident. My yogurt brand is being blocked by a man that resembles a bear trying to get the honey out of a tree. Half of his body is in with the yogurt and the other is half out. Again, he doesn't sense me. I decide to go grab some eggs while he gathers his yogurt. I get them, but not without my own bout of indecision, egg whites or regular eggs? I see the herd shoppers. They are heading for the dairy section. They prompt my decision. Egg whites, not breakable and closer.
After my exit from the battle royal, also known as the produce section and the place where the grocery store has placed the produce in such a fashion as to prompt a homicidal social experiment, I head to the check out lane. I'm pretty much safe, but not without one last dirty look from a fellow shopper. He's exasperated because I have so many things. I don't let him cut in because the 15 item and less check out is empty. I don't want to insult him by suggesting he can't count so I don't point it out.
In my car, I smile as if I were a gladiator that made it another day in the arena. I drive off with the spoils I expensively paid for with money, time, and patience.
The cubicle jockey job is only a cover. Writer of poems, observations, and short stories.
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