Supermarket Stalking

I think four aisles is my max. But on a typical outing I go for two and then just leave the store before someone calls security. Sometimes I even leave my items in the cart and walkout empty handed. I blame HER for being scared so easily.

We could have told the story to our families at Thanksgiving or Christmas dinner. We would bump into each other in the soup section while we both reached for canned tomato soup. We'd have a sweet conversation about grilled cheese and elementary school lunches. I'd smile and she'd laugh. Her mom would say it was cute. Her sisters would be jealous.

Instead she’ll be have another cellphone chat about how some dude with a staring problem had a boner while looking at teriyaki Tofu.

I don’t know how but I always get caught. I don’t get it. I follow all the rules.

I stay half an aisle away. I glance at them from the corner of my eye. I grab an item and read the nutrition facts when confronted with possible eye contact. I stare at either the ground or ceiling lights when passing directly by her. But she still knows. The flabby assed woman looking for Spaghettios knows it. I’m sure the retiree stealing handfuls of peanuts knows it too.

Maybe if I didn’t sweat so easily or breathe so damn hard I could come in under the radar. Or maybe if I didn’t hit four kids with my cart or knock down a stack of canned tuna fish my odds would improve as well.

This would work if I was the bashful type and had a little boyish charm. You know, I’d keep my head down and smile at her, look away innocently before she notices but turn back slightly to see if she’s looking. And it would be okay because her beauty makes me nervous. So she’d come over and say hi, I’d smile and stutter a bit but it would be cute and endearing and we’d have a laugh about it.

Unfortunately raising my eyebrows like Charles Manson and nervously clutching a box of cereal does not contribute to this strategy. Nor does hovering over her while she stoops down to grab ranch salad dressing from the lower shelf.

Now when she looks at me, she gives me that rabbit meets coyote look, like I’m creepy. Well I think she’s creepy for not saying hello. But it doesn’t matter now. The stalker relationship has been defined. Now it’s time to clock her fifty yard dash.

This is when we’ll ACTUALLY be shopping for the same things. She’ll go for smooth peanut butter when I’m looking for chunky and switch her expression from scared house cat to pissed off mountain lion. And that’s when I regret having parked my car near hers because she has a full can of pepper spray and a purple belt in Brazilian Jui Jitsu.

I learn the hard way it’s hard rubbing your eyes with a broken arm.