Bam

I am not a large person. In fact, I’m on the smaller side. I could, in some circles be  considered what they call ‘scrawny.’ (I’d like to point out that in other circles, I’m compared with Chuck Norris.) What I’m getting at here, obviously, is grocery carts are not my thing. Just putting a few things in the luggage rack down under makes it tough to push, but  I also have this incredible knack for always choosing ones with broken wheels. You’re probably rolling your eyes, but I’m serious. Think of an 8-year boy. And then, think of him trying to push a truck with square tires up a hill. And there also might be a few horses in that truck. That’s what I feel like sometimes.

Well last Friday I went out to buy a few things for a cookout. Beer, and lots of it, was naturally the first thing on the list. Wine was buy-two-get-one-free, so three of those went right in too. Of course the cart was faulty, because as mentioned I like those best, and so the wheels were working more like brakes, stopping me short every third shelf display or so. The cart was getting heavy, and taking genuine effort from my end to control. I was also pissed off that I kept ramming my ribs into the handle thing. Got to the end of the bread aisle, decided enough is enough, and violently pushed as hard as I could to make a turn, trying desperately not to grunt. As soon as I turned the corner, BAM! … Head-on collision with a boy of about seven years old — apparently training for track, running full-speed next to canned veggies. Well, he was – until he met me and my horse truck. He fell right to his ass, stunned, not sure if he should laugh or cry.

Held my breath for a quick second, then gave my best smile, and “You run so fast!” which made him giggle and run behind his father. Instantly relieved that my lack of anger management did not just make a cute little kid cry, I thought I was in the clear. But there was one more circumstance in the grocery store for me.

I looked up to see that the boy’s father… was my gynecologist. Dr. Uncomfortable took one look at my booze wagon, and I decided for both of us that acknowledgement was not an option. I revved up the cart and headed for check out.

The moral of the story here: if you reach a point where you believe you cannot possibly lack any more grace, you are wrong.