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Mac’s Moments – Shopping Pt. 2

A original painting by my wife.
Tammy original painting

Hello to all,


This is more of a rant than a blog, but I must get this off my chest. I am a sixty-five-year-old man. The gray overtook the dirty blond several years ago, leaving dark black hairs mixed lightly among the ever-whitening of my age. Pain has crept into every joint of my body. It now takes ten steps before I can walk upright.


Tammy, my boss for the past thirty years, has required me to take her grocery shopping. To this day, I complain about the old people slowly meandering the aisles, holding me back from the most proficient route to finishing my list. They all seem to push the buggies down the center of the lane, blocking anyone from passing. The slow and systematic approach to their shopping hinders my desire to buy and get out of the store as quickly as possible. And so, I grumble under my breath on every detour around the slow-moving obstacles.


Recently, I noticed a man shopping with his wife. She methodically moved up and down the rows, searching for something she might need that was not on their list. The husband checked the list, ran off, found the item, and returned it to the cart. At this moment, I realized it was not them being old; they were shopping. The man and I don’t shop, we buy. You have a list for a reason, so stick to the list, get out, and get out.


We were almost done shopping when Tammy discovered she missed sour cream. I ran to the far corner of the supermarket to gain this final item. It took me about thirty seconds to finish our shopping, where she could spend up to ten minutes finding one last thing. She shops like walking our dog. Where squirrels, rabbits, and moles distract Ginger from her walk, Tammy spots products with bright labels, calling her attention away from the final objective.


We were to meet up at the checkout as I slid back for the sour cream. She had one small island to navigate while I traversed to the furthest point away and returned. I still waited five minutes for her to appear by the registers. I don’t know how old I’ll be when I quit complaining about old people shopping; I do know it is not sixty-five.


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God bless,

Danny Mac

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