Narrating a trip to the grocery store.

 I've been reading some Neil Gaiman short stories. For some reason, every time I read Gaiman, I find myself narrating my life in his voice.  So what follows is my last trip to the grocery store.

Although I no longer have the the gut-wrenching panic attacks. going to the grocery store is still an chest-tightening ordeal (except for Aldi: it's tiny and doesn't have much, so I'm in and out in under 20 minutes.  And there are no Bob memories there).  I've found that over time, I'm buying less and less; we used to fill up a cart, and now it's a couple of the reusable bags.  The plus side is that we used to get home and wonder where we're going to put all this stuff; now it's a 10 minute or less job to put everything away.

My trip down the beer aisle was because I saw a recipe for a Tudor-era hot buttered beer (in theory the inspiration for Harry Potter buttered beer).  It sounded pretty good, so I needed some dark ale.  I was planning on grabbing some good ol' Newkie Brown (Newcastle Brown Ale) - Bob's favorite, also mine.  The beer aisle didn't have a single dark ale of any kind.  Some stout (too heavy) and way too much "lite" beer (reminding me of the joke "Why is American Beer like making love in a canoe?  Answer:  "Because it's fucking close to water.")

So here is my outsider's view of Ann in the Grocery Store:

I watched a woman at the grocery store today.  She was older but not elderly; posture upright, capable looking hands resting on the handle of the shopping cart but not leaning on it.  She wore work clothes - bleach stained khaki pants (baggy, as though she had been larger when she bought them), rubber boots, a faded blue T-shirt with the word "volunteer" printed on it.  Long graying hair tied back in a low careless ponytail.

Her arms were held close to her side, elbows tucked in, careful that neither her she nor her cart blocked any other shoppers.  She leaned over to pick up a small jar of peanut butter, moving the one behind it to take its place, erasing the small path that she had made.  I glanced in her cart: one can of evaporated milk, a bag of child-sized apples, a box of cat treats.

She walked slowly down the beer aisle, turned, and walked even more slowly back, scanning each carton.  Her face blank, she led out a breath that was not quite a sigh, and walked on.

Once outside, she lifted her shoulders as though freed from the oppression of the store.  She put her two bags in the car and neatly returned the cart to the corral.  Getting into her car, she looked back at the store with a brief expression her her face - resignation?  loss? - before driving off.