On a recent trip to the store, I demonstrated personal growth by going back to get a cart. Our grocery store is a two-minute drive (or a ten-minute walk) from my house, so I go there frequently to just get a few things. Maybe it’s because I go there so often, combined my natural tendency towards self-effacement, but I feel like a pillager when I pull out a cart, especially if it’s one of the big ones. So, in the past, I would stubbornly carry a basket, fill it to the brim, and often have two or three other items wedged under one arm. Today, though, I realized my list of items to get was running away with itself, and instead of balancing a bag of kitty litter on my head, I went back and got a cart. One of the small ones, that is.

Maybe the grocery store is a metaphor for life. I know it is a place for discoveries of all kinds, including the ins and outs of buying vegetables. My most recent interest is spaghetti squash. The sign above the bin says to pick one that “feels heavy for its size,” and I try earnestly to do just that. But just as I feel lost when told to rap on the sheetrock wall to find a stud, I go through the motions and then punt. When hanging pictures, I often miss the stud and rely on a molly, aka a drywall anchor, whereas with the vegetables I just steel myself to get what I get. I also diligently rap on the melons I am considering buying, but I would not recognize a “hollow” sound if it sang the Star-Spangled Banner.

For quite a while, I would buy bags of “baby carrots.” I was often disappointed at their taste and texture: how could a “baby” carrot taste so dry and woody? And then, alas, I learned the truth. These carrots are not babies (the label actually says “baby cut”). Instead, they are ancient, primordial beings that have been whittled down to look small. No amount of milling can change their true nature. Lately I have noticed that a certain other type of carrot is stacked loose in its bins with the ends trimmed off. Some of these carrots are nice and slender, while others are hefty specimens that would be best put into a soup. If nobody is looking, I try to drag out the skinny ones without sending the whole pile into a Jenga-style event. This time, most of these carrots were of the chunky variety, with only one skinny one near the bottom. Being surrounded by other shoppers, I gave it a miss.

Produce is always a mixed bag, of course. Sometimes it looks fine, only to begin the decomposition process in earnest before you even get it home. When I spent two months in Western Alaska this past spring, the stores often had excellent vegetables. On the other hand, sometimes the bunches of celery could have doubled as a milder cousin of the cat-o-nine-tails. Where am I going with this? Oh, yes, the life metaphor. I will examine my choices before selecting, and if I find myself with a heavy load, I will seek out help, whether that help is human or mechanical or both.