Dancing in the soup aisle merits a postcard
Would dancing in the soup aisle at an out-of-town grocery store constitute a vacation of great escape, pleasurable pursuits and validation for sending days-of-old postcards lamenting to the recipients that we wish you were here?
Maybe, maybe not.
But sometimes a grocery store has a decent soundtrack playing, at least if you’re me and like older stuff where you recognize the tune and even know some of the lyrics.
If you missed me in this spot last weekend, thanks for that. I wasn’t sleeping at the switch, but I was sort of sleeping in although I hate to miss too much of the mornings.
Vacations are these deceiving stretches of existence that seem as if they’ll last a l-o-n-g, l-o-n-g time, but one day it’s Monday you’re off and the next blink it’s Monday, you’re back.
We spent the week adhering to the Spanish proverb to do nothing and then rest afterward and managed to stop on drives here and there at any spots that caught my attention, including another little out-of-the-way grocery store that turned out to be a real gem.
Not only did I find things on the shelves to make a buggy feel useful, I felt inspired to do the two-step with Better Half, so some twirls and swirls in the soup aisle seemed very much in order.
Hey, why not?
We laughed, feeling no embarrassment or pressure to apologize to fellow shoppers that, sorry, folks — we don’t get out much, and, besides, we’re just here for the canned music, not the canned goods.
After all, we only get the chance to dance if there’s a wedding we’re invited to, and there haven’t been many of those lately in our circle of holdouts to “I do.”
The aisle dancing was but one highlight of the week that also included stops at a couple of local places I’d been wanting to patronize but their hours don’t jive with mine when I’m working — Tri B’s Coffee Shop in Toronto and Timi’s Cafe in Cadiz. Sweet!
Vacations are no guarantee, however, that marital “disagreements” will take a hiatus as I was reminded when we were shopping. I was just on the verge of buying some porch decorations when I could sense his don’t-buy-that frowny face without even seeing it.
“You’re just going to junk up the place” came his traditional unsolicited cautionary-consumer advice he offers.
I responded in kind with my labored, exaggerated sigh, followed up with a huff and a puff.
Then some good old wifely silence. Arctic conditions.
“Don’t I have an opinion?” Better Half asked me quite innocently.
“Yes,” I assured him sweetly. “It’s just that I’m not very interested in it at the moment.”
We can’t stay mad at each other for very long before one of us starts laughing.
Any vacation worth a post card has a guilt trip connected to it, of course.
I had my moments of trying to be productive and thought, gee, I ought to return this really nice cake pan with a lid back to its rightful owner.
She lives all of maybe 15 minutes away, and I’ve been holding it hostage since Memorial Day when she brought a dessert to our family picnic.
I washed it once, but have dusted it multiple times since then.
The delivery didn’t happen, but maybe a postcard from the cake pan itself is a good idea.
“Wish you were here (to take me home)!”