I feel robbed. Robbed of the enjoyment I usually get out of shopping for the week’s groceries. Note to self: The next time we’re faced with turning left to get to Loblaws, or right to get to the Superstore, and it’s anywhere in the vicinity of the weekend, GO LEFT. Always go left. The Superstore was literally crawling with kids, unhappy families, aisles jam-packed with sugar-rushing toddlers and senior citizens who, bless their hearts, can’t seem to drive in a straight line at an appropriate speed, even when the vehicle they’re driving is a grocery cart. Years of waitressing have given me the gift of weaving—no—darting, through a crowd, but Graham has yet to perfect this technique. Eventually we decided the best strategy was for him to stand guard, the cart pulled over, while I “went in”, returning with an armload of dairy products and Hazelnut Coffeemate coffee whitener. I returned from the toothpaste aisle with an expression of triumph reserved only for those returning from battle.
The experience left us with no other way to cope but to quietly mock and exclaim our horror at the contents of the woman’s cart in front of us in line: chocolates, chips, pop, Zoodles, chocolate muffins and Easter eggs. We had fibre and vegetables and whole grains going for us. We had triumphed, and agreed we will never venture into any “super store” of any kind on a weekend AGAIN.
