Me, the futbol player and the shopping cart
Do you ever feel like the rest of the world has some special knowledge that you lack? Like there was a required class that everyone else went to, but you had a dentist appointment that day? And then no one ever thought to catch you up, because, well, everyone knows that.
Shopping cart in a tree. In my neighborhood.
Yeah. So. The grocery store where I shop for my mom has three kinds of carts. There’s the massive kind with the plastic car thing on front, so in case you have young children you can annoy the hell out of the other shoppers by blocking the aisle (because you need more stress when you are out shopping with one or more young children).
There’s the regular giant fatass American-sized cart that is made out of some grey or tan honeycombed plastic type of material, usually festooned with several sheets of month-old store ads stuck together with what appears to be melted and dried ice cream. It is large and ungainly, perfect for the six 12-packs of soda, the giant-sized carton of Hot Pockets and the bale of 48 double rolls of toilet paper that everyone seems to need.
And then there are the petite wire carts. These are small carts, the exact size for the few items I need for mom, and nimble and speedy enough to zoom around all of the other store traffic, which I must do, because I Am So Super Important.
They are also cute and look like something a chic French woman would use while she was out selecting the perfect charcuterie and cheeses to offer her date, the hot championship soccer player, whom she will seduce as the sun sets after a perfect summer evening of snacking and drinking Vouvray on a balcony. She will see the ripple of his perfect abs under his shirt as he leans forward to touch her face and…
-CUT- Back to the damned grocery store.
The only problem is that there are about four cute wire carts, and no one can tell me where they come from. I mean no one. I have asked almost every store employee “Where do you get those carts?” and they look groggily at me as if they are waking from a dream before shaking their heads and saying “Gosh, I don’t know.”
They don’t know. Where the carts IN THEIR OWN STORE come from or go to.
However, EVERY SINGLE TIME I am in the store, I see people shopping with those carts. They all know where to get the carts. But they can’t tell ME. And I missed the class, apparently.
I have asked them where they found the petite wire carts and they always wave their hand in the direction of the other side of the store and say “Over there somewhere.” None of the cart areas ever have one, but other people somehow manage to find them.
One time – once – I found a petite wire cart out in the parking lot, its front wheels stuck in a planter to keep someone from having to walk it the 15 feet back to the cart corral helpfully placed in the parking lot to keep people from having to walk the 50 feet back to the front of the store and thus perhaps burn a calorie or two.
Oh, it was lovely, shopping with the petite wire cart. I sped, I weaved, I turned on a dime…ah, but our time together was too short, and it has never been repeated since. I remember it fondly as a golden day. Almost as golden as that afternoon on the balcony with Javier…