I try to be an optimist, I swear. I'd like to think that the world is innately good, our lives somehow matter, and our very existence is making a difference towards the betterment of mankind. I don't like to give in to cynical thoughts and assume that we're beyond hope and essentially floating through space on a planet-shaped dumpster fire of pointlessness. But some weeks, I'm just not sure.
Pro tip: If you're wanting to keep those rose-colored glasses of optimism firmly planted on your face, avoid the grocery store at all costs.
Since the pandemic, I've been using one of those phone-app shopping services for my groceries. I started out of an abundance of caution, but I've stuck with it out of an abundance of laziness. It's just so nice to sit at home, punch in my shopping list, and have someone bring groceries straight to my door. Does it cost a little more? Yep. But I've done the math and I'm saving money in the long run. Sure, I'm paying a little more for delivery fees and tips, but I'm also spending way less on ridiculous impulse buys. I've literally walked into grocery stores on a specific mission to purchase toilet paper only to leave an hour later with a cart full of groceries I didn't need and then a realization three hours later that I forgot the toilet paper. A $5 delivery fee isn't so bad when it's saving me from a cupboard of junk food.
But last week was a dofferent story. I was tied up during the day and didn't have the opportunity to place an online order. I didn't want to make somebody shop for me after dark, and I'm fully capable of driving my lazy fanny to the store. So I hopped in the car for a fun adventure I'm hoping to never repeat.
I walked through the doors almost eager to remember what grocery shopping felt like. Then I remembered. It felt like... a LOT of people. The store was crowded. Like, REALLY crowded. People were everywhere. I took three steps before an unmasked fellow coughed pretty much directly into my face. Fantastic. I grabbed a shopping cart that rolled about 15 yards before its front wheel went into a seizure so violent that the entire aisle stopped and stared at me. Everything was off to a smashing start.
One of my first stops was to the deli counter, where my plan was to buy some lunch meat for sandwiches. It took the clerk roughly a minute and a half to acknowledge my existence.
"Umm... can I help you?"
"Yeah, thanks," I said. "I need about three quarters of a pound of ham, please."
The clerk looked at me. The clerk looked at the ham. The clerk looked at me. The clerk looked at the ham. Wheels were turning.
"Umm," he said. "Sorry, I don't do math. What is that in numbers?"
I'm not writing this column to make fun of people with terrible math skills. I'm one of those people. It's perfectly okay to be bad at math. My 8th grade algebra teacher lied to my face -- I have NEVER needed any of the skills from that class in my life ever, not once. I'm terrible at math, but I can at least figure out what three-quarters of a pound is.
"It's .75 pounds." He plunked some ham onto the scale and it came out to .4 lbs. "Is that more or less than .75?"
I could probably turn this column into a scathing indictment of our public school system. I could go on about the ridiculousness of a human being asking ME for math help. I could ponder how someone who "doesn't do math" to the extent that they don't know 4 from 7 is somehow playing an integral role in MY personal food chain. Instead, I'll just skip to the end.
After getting coughed on, run over, and unable to find half the stuff on my list, I made it to the checkout. Just one woman in front of me with not many items. Whew. Then I heard her.
"Ohhhh no, no, no you don't!"
Apparently a cake mix had just scanned at a price higher than the sales flyer she was clutching. "You're trying to RIP ME OFF! MANAGER! NOW!"
There wasn't a manager nearby, or perhaps anywhere in the entire building from what I could see. The overcharge? Thirty cents. But it was enough to send her on a roll, shouting about injustice and capitalism to the winds. I was about ready to hand her thirty cents from my pocket when the cashier looked at the sales flyer and immediately caught the problem.
"Ma'am, look, it's the brownie mix that's on sale. This is the Funfetti mix, it's different."
The poor thing looked like she'd been stabbed in the heart. She huffed, she puffed, and then she bellowed with the full fiery intensity of Howard Beale on a bender.
"FUNFETTI... IS... BROWNIES!"
It was Academy Award-worthy emoting, I swear to you. I almost started applauding. I'm pretty sure the clerk may have just given up and handed her the Funfetti for free just to get her out of the store. I certainly wouldn't have blamed her.
If you want to believe that the world is NOT a terrible place, don't go grocery shopping. If you want to hold onto hope that future generations will know the difference between 4 and 7, don't go grocery shopping. If you believe in your heart of hearts than Funfetti is brownies, don't go grocery shopping. If you want an ACTUAL pro tip, PLEASE go grocery shopping. For me. I beg of you. I don't want to go back. Ever.
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