Sunday Shopping

Sunday Shopping

         



              Sunday afternoon used to be the day I went grocery shopping with my husband.  I do not go grocery shopping as frequently anymore, at least not if I can find a way to decline the trip.  In less than two years of marriage, I am finding out all kinds of things about Chris, the man I married less than two years ago.  One item of importance is when it comes to grocery shopping, or shopping for anything, I prefer to shop alone, and I prefer not to do it on a Sunday.  Sunday’s represent a time of rest and rejuvenation for me, and grocery shopping with Chris does not fit well into this scenario.

It is a Sunday afternoon, the parking lot at our local Super Wal-Mart swims in vehicles.  Our Chevy Focus slinks behind and around people walking toward the store in the middle of the road.  They are unaware the small blue car behind them inches toward a specific spot at a mere one to two miles per hour.  At the exact slot, meant just for our car, we lurch forward into the space.  I find that I am holding my breath, and as the engine dies, I heave a sigh of relief.

         We have an express purpose.  Briskly, we stride toward the doors, and without hesitation, Chris points a finger of his extended right hand and swishes it toward the left, then right, as if he, and he alone is responsible for the door opening, and not the automatic sensor.  Once inside, he strides for the nearest grocery cart, devoid of sale circulars, and then we are off!  Our mission is the simple execution of selecting our needs, which we will deposit in the cart.

         The bright lights, the smell of chicken, macaroni and cheese, cooking potatoes, and the cool smell of damp produce greet us as we whiz into the store.  “Which way?” he asks, though at the same time, he does a quick point right indicating that this is the direction we will go.  His long legs make for a sweeping stride, and my shorter legs have to run double duty to keep up.  I feel the first flame of embarrassment.  I am sure everyone sees his quick arm motions, his finger pointing, and his blue-eyed gaze that darts from me to the space he must maneuver in order to get to our first destination.

         “Did you have the list?”

         “I didn’t have time to make a list,” I say loud enough for him to hear, but hopefully not loud enough for anyone else to overhear, “I know what we need.”          

                A large woman in tight jeans and a blue sweatshirt is slowly pushing her empty cart toward the vitamin aisle, her hips do a lazy slow dance, and Chris makes a sharp left and another sharp right to pass her.  I feel as though we are on the expressway, and that if he is going to be switching lanes, he should at least put his signal on. 

Some people are shopping for groceries; some are whiling away a Sunday afternoon perusing the aisles without much thought into the brightly colored turtlenecks in basic blacks, whites, navy blues, or the neatly folded jeans stacked by size.  These people are looking, dreaming, finding something to do besides sit at home and watch television.  Some are spending a spouse’s money with a gleam of purpose on their faces, I recognize this look, I’ve seen on the faces of friends, and sometimes, I am envious.           

              Chris and I are there for the express purpose of purchasing our weekly groceries and basic needs.  Our trips are not leisurely.  I do not linger over the candles, smelling one, then another, to find the scent I like, and I don’t peruse the card racks, laughing at the funny ones, smiling at the tender verses, no, these are things I do when I shop alone.

The lights are bright, and the store is crowded, but I can barely see the faces of the men, women, and children who mill about.  I am concentrating on what we have in the cupboards.  Do we need more potatoes?  Do I have enough peas for the week ahead?

              We have chosen the Crest Pro Health cinnamon flavored toothpaste so he will not gag when he brushes his teeth, and the mouthwash is only for me, he won’t use mouthwash, so I buy what I want.  I grab a bottle of my favorite shampoo before he disappears too far ahead.  I hurriedly snatch a box of Clairol number 33, for $2.97 and toss them into the moving cart just as it makes the sharp left at the back of the store.  I am out of breath, and Chris raises an eyebrow.  “My skunk stripe is showing,” I say, pretending to look at the gallons of blue antifreeze displayed on the end caps. 

Faster down the back of the store toward the food aisles, than we drove into our parking spot, we seem to be flying past the cream cheese, the butter, the eggs, and he pauses to ask, “Do you need any milk?”

              “I have milk.”

              We head down the regular aisles to get requisite Dr. Pepper, the Snickers Six to Go pack candy bars, and the Lance Wheat Crackers with peanut butter that he must take to work everyday.  After picking up a loaf of wheat bread, a bag of red potatoes, and choosing between beef roast or pork loin, and some chicken, we are back to the cool air of sprayed produce, and head toward the checkout lines.

                I hate the checkout line most of all.  I must go first, and my job is to watch as items are scanned to make sure the cashier doesn’t scan twice.  Chris lines all the items in the cart on the counter with the bar codes in place for easy scanning.  “We’ll checkout faster,” he told me the first time, “they don’t fumble looking for them.”  Every item loaded on the counter from the cart by type as well.  As soon as the empty cart comes my way, I move it facing the door, and begin loading the items as fast as possible, taking care not to mix up the bags, so they can be carted to the car, loaded in the trunk, and removed in the most expedient manner.  Removing the bags at home in similar precise execution, putting the groceries away is a snap. 

                With one more left right sway of the hand to open the automatic doors in exiting, we race down the parking lot with our bounty, fill the trunk, and park the shopping cart.  I sigh again, as I snap the seat belt.  I look forward to getting home as soon as possible, putting our food in its proper place, and making myself a cup of hot tea, and perhaps reading or writing for a spell on my Sunday evening.  If I am lucky, I can snuggle up to my husband, and ask for one of his wonderful back rubs.  Back rubs, unlike shopping trips are one of those important things I learned about my husband, and that all-important back rub comes from my directions.