|(Yes, I know. My chin looks like an unsightly combo of Arnold Swarzeneggerer's and Honey Boo Boo's.)|
It’s a claustrophobic experience, really. Too many people. Too much food. Entirely too many decisions. I feel like the aisles are caving in around me. They’re taunting me, “What’s the matter? Can’t remember those Pinterest recipes? By the way, boxed pizza is not a meal, you terrible wife."
Before I got a job, I would go grocery shopping by myself (terrifying). Now that I’m gainfully employed, Grahm and I have been going together. Mistake. I’m not sure what it is, but every time we enter the land flowing with processed food and obnoxious shoppers… we become grouchosauruses.
We have friends who love to go to the store together. Like that's their thing. I don't get it. At all. Even after a year of marriage, we are still learning to combine our shopping habits. Grahm likes to buy the expensive brands; I grew up on the Wal-Mart equate stuff. He likes to buy in bulk (“Look, babe! We can buy 27,639 rolls of toilet paper; it’s on sale!”); I do not. Grahm likes to fly down each aisle; I move slower than a blind amputee so I don't miss a sale on the powered donuts.It’s my fault, really. A compulsive buyer who’s terrible at making lists doesn’t make for an efficient grocery shopper. I buy everything I don’t need, and nothing I do. I skip things on recipes (“Eh, do I really need eggs?”). I go for items that I probably will use once, maybe. Dry mustard. Gorgonzola cheese? Score. Yet I forget the essentials. And I always forget to check the fridge before we head to the store. We may or may not have four bags of cheddar cheese right now.
This is right after I scolded him for riding the cart down the aisle. Don't ask why the Comet is next to the eggs. There is no rhyme or reason to grocery shopping with the Roaches.