Vartabedian: Supermarket Syndrome a Whirlwind Tour

Next to wrestling alligators and walking a tightrope across Niagara Falls comes grocery shopping on my list of undesirables.

I do not like frequenting supermarkets for four valid reasons: I can never find what I’m looking for; end up buying calories I don’t need; cannot stand the obstacle courses before me; and find the price market far too gregarious.

It’s the only place I know where shoppers follow such a straight and narrow path. Some of those kart-pushers are downright hostile if you get my drift. They just as soon run you down as maneuver their wheels around you.

“Excuse me,” they snarl, bumping their kart into mine like some vigilante out on a mission.

That is why I try to avoid this purgatory for as long as I can without discarding some responsibility as a spouse. When the two of us patrol the aisles, I usually push the kart and she does the shopping.

Along the way, I’m apt to toss in a box of crackers, my favorite pickles, the hummus of my choice, a bag of garlic chips, and hot V-8 juice.

That’s when the warning sign goes up. “Do you know how much salt there is in that bottle?” she cautions. “It’s enough to kill you. With your cholesterol, I suggest you lean more toward non-fat, sugar-free products.”

In other words, avoid anything that looks and tastes good. Soybean is good. Go for the alfalfa sprouts. Check out the fruits and veggies, and to heck with the dips and noodles.

Okay, so my insides are a little askew. We’re not all perfect. I exercise like a freak so I can occasionally enjoy a bowl of pasta with a hunk of garlic bread. Please don’t deprive me of carbs now and then.

There’s another setback with supermarkets. I know too many people in town and invariably, I “run into” somebody I know who’s anxious to bend my ear about nonsense. Not only am I evading the reckless pushers, I’m also on alert for familiar faces.

Most of the time, I don’t know their names but they know mine from years at the paper. Sometimes I think they just hang out at places like these and jump out from a corner when they see me coming.

I find it fascinating to see what others are buying, often second-guessing their purchases. Who could possibly fill a carriage with nothing but baked beans? Then comes a game of musical cashiers.

Which checkout counter do you choose? Sometimes, the shortest lines lead to the longest waits as a budget-conscious female pulls out one coupon after another, debit and credit cards, checks out the newspaper inserts and matches them with sale prices, and turns the whole ordeal into a lifetime experience.

I remember once giving the patron in front of me $1 because she fell a little short as opposed to extracting an item, having a cashier call the manager, and taxing my patience beyond a reasonable doubt.

Patience is not one of my biggest virtues. Thus, I have no place inside a supermarket. Leave it to me and I would do my grocery shopping at a pharmacy or some 24-hour place rather than put up with the rigmarole.

Granted, I would pay a little more in price but get more tolerance in return. That’s why they call them convenience stores. My family goes nuts when I stop by one of these stores for a container of cream and pay a “ransom.” They feel I should drive across town to pick up said item, and exhaust my fuel and time just to save some change.

It’s too bad. I remember the corner grocery store growing up where the owner knew your name and would exercise some leniency over a difficult time. They were like “Cheers” bars and my grandmother would walk out with two bags full of groceries in each arm.

Today, a dollar won’t buy you the holes in Swiss cheese and people who put all their eggs into one basket may return home with one or two broken in transport. Money goes fast nowadays. Just check out the checkout counter of your supermarket if you dare.

I’m not saying this is a woman’s world because I know some blue-blooded males who do the grocery shopping in their home. They get the list from their wife and off they go, ready to do battle. Easy Ed told me he can’t shop with his wife so the obvious occurred.

His wife let him handle it.

He told me the other day that he would rather be inside a busy supermarket on a scavenger hunt than be home around a buzzing vacuum cleaner with a topsy-turvy house.

I sympathize with him.

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Tom Vartabedian

Tom Vartabedian is a retired journalist with the Haverhill Gazette, where he spent 40 years as an award-winning writer and photographer. He has volunteered his services for the past 46 years as a columnist and correspondent with the Armenian Weekly, where his pet project was the publication of a special issue of the AYF Olympics each September.