Meccanized

Just a quick post before I go to sleep.

“Hearts of Palm.”  It was an item on my grocery list yesterday, important enough that it had its own line on my note pad.

I go to Mollie Stone’s.  I get my hummus without incident.  My yogurt with no problem.  My quarter pound of pesto parmesan ham sans difficulty.  All I have left to buy is one damn can of hearts of palm …

… which, of course, is on the highest possible shelf in the canned vegetable area.  I stare at it for a second, wondering if there is some way I can safely knock one down without hurting myself.  After vetoing that idea, I notice a 40-something man a little farther down the same aisle.  Like any civilian in need, I explain my predicament and ask him for assistance.

His response (before even getting me the can)?

“Wouldn’t this be a great story to tell our kids someday?  That mom and dad met because mom couldn’t reach a can of vegetables?”

An uncomfortable few seconds ensued.   I stood drinking in the proverbial big cup of awkward, a frozen half-smile on my face (a relic from the happier, normal times a few minutes before).  He made no attempt to pluck the can in question from the shelf for me.  I finally couldn’t stand it anymore, mumbled “oh, I forgot I need this,” grabbed the first can within my reach from the shelf and skittered away with my basket.

I just wanted some hearts of palm.  Instead, I got an unsatisfied craving and a can of creamed corn (yuck) that now sits on my counter silently reminding me of the discomfort of the afternoon.

I’m not even sure what grinds my gears about this.  Asking for help and instead getting an unwelcome pick-up attempt?  Asking for help and not actually getting help?  Having to go through my weekend without my hearts of palm fix?

All of it.  Meccanized.