BANISHMENT 11: Grocery Shopping at 3 PM

Today I opened the refrigerator. This is always an interesting experience because I can never remember exactly what I left there. Every morning it turns into “Let’s Make a Deal” in my kitchen. What’s behind door number two? Perhaps a treasure chest of lamb chops and indecently tasty tangerines? Or will it be curdling milk and thoroughly rotted tomatoes?

This morning, however, The Deal was very boring. The ketchup was sitting with the eggs making fun of the orange juice that was all but empty. The rest of the shelves were pretty naked, save a package of tortellini and some sweet and sour sauce I got from the Chinese Dragon about 3 months ago. It was certainly time for some food remodeling. So this afternoon when I was out running errands, going to UPS and doing all sorts of other popular business things, I decided heck, why not, let’s go ahead and swing by that ole grocery store and stock up.

I don’t know if you are at all like me in your grocery shopping habits, but I find I rarely enter the land of carts and produce unless its post-5 or official weekend. Going during the day just feels peculiar. Like I’m on vacation at the beach and must remember to swing by Aisle 3 to pick up more sunscreen.

When I walked into the grocery store today, something automatically felt off. As though I was walking into the wrong-gender bathroom. It took a second for the peculiarity to register, and then, upon realization, I became thoroughly embarrassed and wanted to crawl into the tiles for dear life. Unbeknownst to me, I had entered the land of the elderly.

I wish, at that point in time, I had a large pad of paper, a pen, and at least 30 spare minutes. I would have bolted the doors shut and walked to every grocery-store inhabitant, polling their age. Kroger Census 3:00 PM. I would have determined, blindfolded, that the median lifespan of coupon-clipping, cart-pushing, milk-guzzling shoppers was 97 and three quarters. It was grocery store “rest period” and no one under the age of 80 was allowed in the aisles. 

My grocery store excursion, which was so small that it only required a hand-held basket, was elongated thanks to Wrinkle Invasion 2010. Gray haired grannies were apparently never taught the standard grocery store etiquette. I don’t care if you are eighty-seven and a relative of Betsy Ross. You cannot turn your cart horizontal, press your buttocks up against the Raisin Bran and spend five minutes trying to decide between original and brown sugar oatmeal. You are blocking the path and that is an automatic foodie foul. Additionally, it seems as though legislation must be passed that does not allow the elderly to operate the self checkout lane. Precious though they be, entire centuries pass as they attempt to locate the bar code on their Vaseline.

While I love old people with all of my heart, I’d rather play Poker with them than but heads over heads of lettuce. I will never ever dare to grocery shop during the day again. It is the horrendously scary territory of slow motion and those who enter will likely come out as gray chain smokers who never heard that cigarettes cause cancer. And death.