Really...I Just Want to Grocery Shop

I love pretty grocery stores.

The beautiful rainbow of dew spritzed fruits and vegetables, well groomed aisles sporting carpet rather than linoleum, an impressive absence of fluorescent lights, the word “organic” scattered throughout. I literally can spend hours in the Monet of markets, thoughtfully contemplating what culinary masterpiece I can create from the plethera of goods. When there I am, deep in critical decision making on whether to go with an Asian Pear or Bosc, and I accidently make the crucial mistake of eye contact with the gentlemen next to me. NEVER make eye contact.
He sees the opportunity, quickly asking, “Do you like cats?”
“No, I don’t. Sorry.” I offer a small smile, but divert my attention back to pear pondering. I am really intent on these pears. He does not give up that easily. Closer in he moves.
“Well, I need to find a home for my cat. You look familiar, have I seen you before? You may have seen me, I was on the news last week. I’m also a professional juggler.”

I’ll spare you gory details of most of the story, but the ending was not pretty. As I continually dodged his questions and made small gestures to suggest I was in a hurry, didn’t want to talk, and was downright not interested, he refused to surrender. I would escape to a new aisle only to find him wandering towards me. How did he find me so quickly? Was he multiplying by the minute? I was being stalked. In a grocery store. I ultimately fled to the top floor and hid for 15 minutes by the vitamins. True story.

And this is just one incident. In the past 3 months I’ve also been offered business cards, given a strawberry Jolly Rancher, and followed in two circles around the imported cheese section in grocery stores. I don’t know what these guys are reading in Maxim, but some people really just want to grocery shop! I am not there to pick up men. If I was wearing a Juicy Couture tracksuit, had on Jessica Simpson hair extensions and asking you to help me carry my basket of chocolate covered strawberries & condoms- I could understand. But the worst part is the insistent denial of the situation. Do you really think I’m playing hard to get while picking out yeast-free bread? Is that sexy?

I really don’t want to have to start renting kids, wearing sweats, or pretending to be schizophrenic at a grocery store to enjoy my time. Please don’t make me. Now, if you’re hopelessly handsome, look like George Clooney and are interested in gourmet cooking- you may casually ask me about exotic mushroom varieties. I may just be interested in that…