I’m not known for my bravado. Given the option of facing something distasteful or burying my head in the proverbial sand, I will take the sand every time.
Hence I only go to the doctor when I have no alternative; I face a dentist visit with dread. Like my mother, I have the ‘peace at any price’ mentality, even if it means swallowing large lumps of pride without the benefit of large lumps of wine with which to wash it down, swallow I will.
I now, however, now put my hand up for the bravery of the week award – putting myself in the line of fire for the benefit of our little household.
I went grocery shopping on Saturday. Now girls, we all know that doing this chore on a Saturday is tantamount to pulling the pin out of a grenade and then dropping the damned thing. You just know it’s going to blow up in your face. Any weekday is fine, but leave the weekends to the amateur shoppers.
By amateur, of course, I mean – well, not to be too sexist about it – men. Guys I am really sorry, and I apologize in advance. I know some of you are experts in the field, and I would hate for you to be lumped in with The Lost Tribe – but even you experts must agree with me.
The weekend shoppers are generally made up of a) men sent out by their lovely lady wives to achieve an A on the grocery list, or b) men are instructed to accompany their wives and small children on said trips. In neither instance is the man remotely interested in the activity, and would have quite frankly rather stayed at home to clean up the garage – with the aid of a beer and a flat screen TV showing the World Cup.
So there I found myself on Saturday at the grocery store, my aisle-by-aisle list in hand as I prepared to hurtle myself stoically forward to attain the Guinness Book of Records new entry in speed shopping. I know where everything is, I know how much I need, and I’d reckoned on a personal best of 10.43 minutes.
Thwarted at every turn I was. Not only was it the dreaded Saturday, it also heralded the Taste of Summer promotion the store was doing of which I had totally forgotten.
You’ve heard of the Pensioners’ Buffet at Costco – those days when tables spring up like mushrooms, laden down with tempting goodies to taste? Well this was a positively gourmet feast. Not only did tables abound everywhere, nattily dressed helpers were wandering as aimlessly as the aforementioned Dads offering who knows what on trays. I don’t have time for this, people!
At one point I found myself in the washing powder aisle – it being free of another human being, where I hunched shivering at the thought of going back into the fray.
Even the store manager mentioned I was looking a little fraught.
A little fraught? Where is that sand?
Annie Dear lives in Lee’s Summit. Email her at firstname.lastname@example.org .