Running out of thyme in the spaghetti sauce aisle

I was lamenting over a friend's up-coming visit to the relatively nearby college town of Geneseo. "That's too bad," I sympathized, "you won't be able to get any Dunkin Donuts as they have shut down all their gas station locations." My friend looked at me, startled. "Amy, Geneseo has had a free-standing Dunkin Donut shop now for some time." I froze...realizing this is just further evidence of how small my world has become. I haven't been to Geneseo since December. Haven't had a haircut since Thanksgiving break and haven't seen the inside of a mall in over a year.

It takes all my strength just to walk into a grocery store.

We do not need to re-visit my mental health issues but reviewing my triggers is pretty entertaining. Experiencing them? Not so much.

Time spent in the building is a crucial factor as most of my melt-downs occur in the frozen food aisle. The donut display case is also a common location for emotional breakdowns. I was befuddled when my fritters were forced into pre-packaged plastic containers at the height of the pandemic. Now I realized that they were but a precursor to the plexi-glass isolation stations now facing my students. Brad, attentive to any possible environmental instability, was confused when, in July, I stood, silently weeping in the bakery department. "What's wrong?" he asked, ready to deploy Operation Abort-the-Aisle. "They're free," I gasped, pointing. As Brad looked for a price sign to confirm my emotional declaration, I tried again, "The fritters are free-range," I rejoiced, lifting my arms heavenward. As God intended. Surely this was a sign that my world was returning to normal.

Decision-making is torture for both Brad AND me. It would be so much easier, of course, for Brad to take over household purchases and just by-pass me altogether in making the decisions that affect our lives but we are both acutely aware that this is detrimental to my mental health AND the stability of our marriage. So...at least once a week, we torment one another in a public forum. An excellent example of this anguish was in the purchase of spaghetti sauce. Now...we should have been safe because it's a mid-store requisition but it is an aisle that exasperates me because for some unfathomable reason, spaghetti sauce and pasta is set in the same display aisle as diapers. It aesthetically throws me off every time.

I needed a jar of spaghetti. Simple.

Not.

Prego is my brand of choice but wasn't on sale. We don't hate Ragu and it WAS on sale. Barilla is an unfamiliar brand to us but its regular price was cheaper than Ragu's sale price. I like a garden-style chunky variety but am opposed to carrots in general. I love garlic but my pandemic belly has been a tad on the sensitive side. Brad, by this time, was banging his head against the wall but fortunately the diapers were softening the blow. "Have you decided?" he asked, trying to be gentle and patient but not coming off gentle and patient AT ALL. That did it. Cue tears. Cut to the end of that day's shopping adventure.

But each of these experiences are teaching us...laying the groundwork for helping me get better. When faced with a wall of infinite choices, Brad springs into action, selecting three options for me to annoyingly debate and decide. We do not leave a store empty-handed because the failure sends me into the fetal position for days. Every visit to the store adds another tactic to our always developing game-plan such as: Do not fill your cart beyond capacity and, most recently, never "leaf" your lettuce behind.

In my attempt to trick Brad and stay out of stores longer, I try to sweep everything on the shelves into our cart. Somehow...a ball of iceberg lettuce ended up in the middle of all my junk food. It was perched, liked an obscene cherry on top of our jiggling Jenga grocery cart sundae. As I wobbled my way out of the store, my salad spun out of control, dropping to the ground. Nothing was getting between me and the exit. I heartlessly ran over its head without pausing. Not willing to be a party to a hit-and-run, Brad checked on the victim, carrying the little carcass out to the van. "How is it?" I asked. "I'm afraid it'll be a vegetable for the rest of its life," Brad reported.