shop fits

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It is a place I always dread going, yet my own personal economy requires I make my bi-weekly grocery shopping visits here.

It is a maze of people pushing carts and pallets of boxes and rows packed with a dizzying display of choices. I find it completely overwhelming.

A man walks through the automatic doors toting a baby carrier. Inside, the baby’s head bobbles from side to side each time the carrier hits his leg. A woman in heels and a dress that is too short on both ends maneuvers around me. Her basket has become an extension of her hip, promising a painful run in should I get too close. Two guys with greasy hair beat me down the next isle. My impulse it to find different route, but my course seems predetermined by the rickety cart I push.

I know what my expression must look like: It’s one of glazed impatience and apathy. As I course back and forth down the isles, I close my eyes. I want to abandon my cart and go home. But to do so would necessitate a second trip, which is a more unbearable thought.

When I reach the check stands, they are a dam to strings of carts heaped to overflowing with boxes of electronics and dog food and cereal boxes and diapers. There is no other way out but to join the masses.

When it is my turn, as usual, the checker places two items per bag. Despite my scramble to rearrange, I end up with six plastic bags instead of the necessary three. I resolve to bring them back to recycle, instead of add them to the pile bursting from underneath my sink.

Someday, after I marry rich of course, I will never shop here again.


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