Grocery Shopping With Sven

Okay, maybe it wasn't planned, and we only bumped into each other near the checkout...

One evening, after work, last week, I braved the curse that is Family Fare in the Urbandale Plaza.  As I'm sure I have mentioned, I hate going there.  However, it is so close to my house that my exhaustion usually gauges whether or not I will make the extra effort to drive out to Meijer's or WalMart.  I was having a decent sort of day, but wanted to get home in time to actually cook something for my son, instead of stopping for take out as I'd done the majority of the last two months, so I went for it.

One of the new changes in the store has helped at least a bit.  There are a few self check-outs, which is nice when you don't feel like having to smile or make small talk.  This is especially convenient when you are ready to burst into tears or feel like screaming. 

I was past the prepackaged produce, when I spied the Pistachios on sale, and reached to grab a couple for my cart.  My hand stopped partway out, and my chest began to burn and boil, so much lava and fire.  Pissed off at myself, I jerked my hand back to my side, and wondered how long my brain would continue to play these cruel tricks on me.  When will I know all the time that she's gone?  And once I do, will it feel better or worse?

I rolled on to the deli counter, getting my cold cuts, and walking away, chin on my chest, remembering all the times Cory had grabbed up the ham with glee, and snuck a few bites as we did the rest of our shopping.  I scolded her every time, and she grinned at me, her mouth full of ham, looking happy and alive.

Passing the center aisle, with its treasure trove of frozen goods, I paused, noticing Family Fare was moving up in the world.  You could now purchase frozen lobster tails for your cooking pleasure.  I grabbed at them, thinking of how excited Cory would be, and dropped them just as quickly.  Who knew seafood could be so infuriating?

I picked up my pace, grabbing things without looking at prices, in a hurry to get the hell out of this wretched store.  With each step, I became more and more angry with the store, with West Michigan Avenue, with the driver, with myself.  My steps quickened in time with the raising of my blood pressure.  By the time I nearly struck Dr. Z with my cart, I had surely worked up some patches of color high on my cheekbones that he likely took for signs of good health and cheer.

We each smiled and said hello, and I broke the professional boundary by giving him a hearty hug that he returned with a slightly embarrassed but equally hearty pat between my shoulder blades.  Looking back, I can see that as we made small talk, his assessment of my presentation was as automatic as breathing, even a full forty-five minutes off the clock:  the patient, a quiet woman in her early forties, was clean and reasonably groomed.  She was dressed in business casual attire, appropriate for a workday. 

Indeed, I had even matched my Hunter boots to my overcoat.  I had remembered to put on earrings.  My hair was squeaky clean and pinned back in some type of style.  I was even wearing makeup; my carefully applied eyeliner belying my desperation.

We bent our heads into each other's carts.  Dr. Z had his bag of navel oranges, and the makings of a bachelor dinner or three.  He glanced at the contents of mine, and asked politely, "Getting ready for the holiday?"

At the mere mention of the "H" word, I flinched.  "I don't really do the holidays anymore." I said quietly, sad to disappoint him.

He smiled warmly, anyways, asking after Jake and my parents, as he always does.  We soon said good-bye and wheeled away from each other.

Imagine his surprise, when days later I appeared in his office at 8 a.m. wanting to die.  All he kept saying, his puzzled expression genuine, was, "But when I saw you in the store..."

Yes, Sven, I know, I had matched my clothes, I had fresh fruit and veggies in the cart, but I still want to die the majority of the time.  I work to fight the urge, the same as I work to get out of bed, shower, and dress...facing the day without my girl is like those first steps into Family Fare that feel like walking on knives.  It's like that every day.  The worst days are the ones where I sit down and really question if it's worth it.  That's how I ended up your emergency appointment- I sat down, and really thought about it.