My frustration started to mount as we entered the cult-favorite, discounted grocery store when a mob of frantic shoppers fought for the only two-tiered cart left in the front. We had to push into the door frame, and then walk slowly looking for space to take steps as we entered the produce-obsessed crowd. Very quickly I realized that Trader Joe's on a Saturday afternoon is the closest place to hell I had actually ever been (and hopefully will ever be), but it was too late. There we were. Two newlyweds just trying to get whole wheat dough for our Oscars make your own pizza night, surrounded by the most aggressive 80-year-old women I had ever seen.
I felt the panic seize up in my throat and looked to my dear husband for support and to help me keep calm and carry on. As I turned to look for his strong, unwavering, solid and stable presence, he was gone. I scanned the piles of fussing people, and saw the top of his curly haired head bobbing up and down by the oranges, yelling something as he piled the mesh bags of fruit into his cart. He was sweating, red in the face, hadn't blinked since we arrived, and he was smiling.
Each and every time he moved deeper into the store, he picked something else up, grapes, lemons, lettuce, things we didn't need nor came for. He scanned the price, smiled a little crazy-like, began to sweat more, turned even redder with excitement and so on. He had forgotten he had come to this hell-hole with his loving wife and had left me in his deal-finding dust as he groped the fruits and vegetables, asking himself in an odd whisper "what does a ripe one look like?" It didn't matter. He took everything he picked up, and was picking up speed and agility as he approached the cereals and grains.
I tried to follow him, but he was a fast one, and I couldn't keep up. I was corralled into a line by a man holding a wooden sign on a stick. He was yelling "LINE TWO STARTS HERE!" and asking people to stay calm and follow to the back of the line. I didn't even have anything and he was pushing me to get into this line that wrapped around the store, in between aisles, and back towards the door. I had become cattle and it was get out now or get stampeded into the white linoleum floor.
I maneuvered around the chaos and found Bob running up and down the frozen food aisle. He had left his cart at the end of the row and was carrying frozen dinners like a football, protecting it from other people who in his super-saver paranoia thought wanted his finds. It was like a bad episode of "Supermarket Sweep." I couldn't believe his fury and fervor in getting those penne arrabbiatta and enchilada meals into the safety of his own cart. It was clear, Trader Joe's made my husband, Traitor Bob. Nothing else mattered, not even me.
I watched him from afar join the cattle procession, still shopping the shelves from his place on line as he progressed to the front. As the cashier swiped his cart-full of food, he was almost hopping up and down in excitement over how low the prices were. I think he told the cashier he loved her but I wasn't sure. He complimented her as if she owned the place, and even was thrilled about the sturdy brown bags in which they packed the food - perfect for bringing his lunch to work in. As we left, I realized that this hell of mine, had been my favorite person's heaven, and that although we are soul mates and partners in this life and the next, we are very different when it came to apples and oranges.
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