I cannot decide if the Walmart shopping experience is a positive heart-stimulating exercise for this seventy-five year old 'ticker' or if the drill is a taxing-stress-filled detriment to my aging nervous system. Let me share my mental anguish.
Entering Walmart's parking lot, I must be keenly alert to other entering drivers who believe they increase personal worthiness by securing the parking spot nearest the main entrance; these folks are on a mission from hell. Laying claim to a shopping cart would test the patience of the late Saint, Mother Teresa. The carts are tightly soldiered into one another and invariably the first cart I attempt to dislodge will be hooked to the second cart by the child-safety belt, which is never used by any mother who places her child in the cart seated in their own carry-seat. After much haggling and a pinched finger or two, I am successful in separating. As I pull my cart out I look over my shoulder to notice an elderly women with a walking cane displaying a longing gander at my available cart; I give her the cart and turn to the long row of tightly stacked carts and begin my struggles again. Finally, I have a cart and enter the store. As I head towards the produce aisle, I notice the cart is 'pulling' a hard- right towards the Men's Underwear section. The right front wheel of the cart appears to be having a seizure as it wobbles uncontrollably making a loud squeaking noise, which causes all other shoppers to turn and gawk at the old fart.
Upon securing my vittles, I search five minutes for lawn bags, which Walmart moves frequently to different corners of the store for the purpose of causing you to 'notice' something else on 'sale.' With my 18-items in cart, I head to the express checkout lane, refusing the 'self-check' passage. In the 20-items or less line, I find myself behind a rather robust lady with a cart filled and over-flowing. I do my best to suppress my anger as I suspect her blatant disregard to her rule-breaking lane choice; telling myself that she is unaware of her misstep.
In the parking lot, I spend an additional 3-to-4 minutes trying to remember the lane number (today) where I parked my auto. During my drive back home, I recall my teen years when I worked for my Aunt Irene as a grocery store deliver boy. Neighborhood customers telephoned the store and my Aunt would take their order then hand me the order ticket. I would traverse the aisles of the corner store and fill the box, which I would later deliver to that customer's home. Why is it that I seem to always be on the wrong side of the game?
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