Let me say, to begin, that I should’ve known going to Market Basket on Holy Saturday was a bad idea. Weekends are always terrible there, especially holiday weekends. (That includes the entire Patriots season.) But less than twenty-four hours after coming home from abroad? From a poor country? From Cuba, where there’s no advertising, no options, no variety?
I am a woman with a death wish, apparently.
My mum kept asking me questions: which kind of cheese? Hot or mild salsa? I had no clue how to answer these questions. I am far more indecisive now than I already was. So I stood there, gripping the handle of the shopping cart (I should not have been steering) while she scouted deals. My eyes were so wide, and my face so apparently disturbed, that a nice guy who worked there asked if I was okay. Um, yeah. I’m just a little overwhelmed.
Everywhere, options. Why do there need to be so many kinds, so many brands of lettuce? It’s just leaves, right?
“Wild crispy tango romaine lettuce.”
How is that even a thing?
The waffle aisle was disturbing. Yes, frozen waffles had their own aisle. Name brand, store brand, other name brand: whole grain, seven grain, blueberyr, chcolate, cinnamon, homestyle. and that’s just one brand
I can only imagine the damage a Cuban would do if they were allowed to shop at just one of these aisles.
Everyone was acting as though all the other shoppers were there as a personal insult. Living obstacles to their Easter dinner, and time outside on a rare, gorgeous spring day in Massachusetts.
Bright, psychedelic colours assailed the eyes from all sides. Where in nature does one find that colour?
Then I got to the condiment aisle–row upon row of mayonnaise–and I felt comfortable.
Every five minutes or so, a man’s voice would crackle and bark onto the intercome. Always selling more, different, here, new, better!
I should’ve stayed in the car.