Confessions Of A Grocery Store Geek

Motherhood changes alot of things about you.  Not the least of which is your idea of fun.  Fun used to be a night of social dancing with friends, where I stayed out entirely too late.  Listened to music that was entirely too loud.  And danced entirely too hard to avoid being sore the next day as I dragged myself into work.  Or dinner and a movie with my husband, where we indulged in concessions.  Arrived in time for all the previews and stayed for the very last credit.  Or shopping with my sister, which was really more about laughing than shopping, but occasionally did include trying something on.  These days, I confess that fun is something altogether different.   Check my top three fun-faves of the moment:

Late night grocery runs.  While I don't enjoy having to do this after the kids are down for the night, at the very end of an already long day, I do enjoy getting to walk every aisle as slowly as I like.  While jamming out to whatever happens to be piped in over the sound system.  The last time I listened to pop radio was two years ago.  So I know all the songs in Food Lion.   And I hum them.  Loudly.  Down every aisle.  And I don't care one bit what other people think as I flip back and forth between consulting my coupon book and shopping list with a look on my face like I'm doing calculus.  I'm trying to save money while feeding my family after all.  And being there late is very much like burning the midnight oil at the office.  Just without the nameplate.  Or paycheck.   I find myself reading labels.  Comparison shopping.  And going back for things I actually realize I've forgotten before I get out into the parking lot.   Not worrying about whose hands are touching what.  And not keeping one eye on the clock, while I watch for stray pieces of clothing to be tossed into the floor, as I push the stroller with my left hand and drag the cart with my right.

Getting my hair done.  I have been known to foam at the mouth count down the days in anticipation of a hair appointment, knowing that I would practically fall asleep in the stylist's chair mid-sentence.  That I would be offered a canned beverage, with no ice or cup and still feel like a celebrity.  A celebrity who gets to read a couple of magazines cover to cover with the only interruption being the occasional, "Still doing ok?"  I consider telling her that I am not at all ok...  I am in HEAVEN.  But I don't.  I just smile and sip my diet coke.  As I turn another page in my magazine I try desperately to relax and be fully present in this moment of bliss.  Because it's got to last me another three months.  And then I resume admiring everyone else's trendy hair, purses, makeup, and outfits.  I look in the mirror and see...  a tired mommy.  With bad skin.  Who looks like she got dressed in the Walmart fitting rooms.  But I've got good hair dagnabit!!  For at least two days anyway.  And with that thought, I relax a little more and let myself disappear into the drone of the dryer.

Coffee Talk.  I'm not particular.  Any kind of coffee will do, provided it contains large amounts of caffeine.  Any place is fine with me.  So long as it includes time with a cherished friend.  I don't even care what sort of seating we have.  Hard chairs give me better posture, which makes me feel more presentable.  Despite the fact that I'm wearing stretch pants, no makeup and a ponytail.  And quite possibly still have yogurt on my shoes.  Comfy chairs make me feel luxurious.  Like I'm at a spa where they expect you to close your eyes and go to your happy place while they tend to your every whim.  But instead of lavender oils and dim lights, there are coffee beans and lots of people with laptops.  Keystrokes...  spa tunes... it all works these days.  I start to breathe deeper as I hug my cup and wish I'd upsized my order.  All the while praying that the coffee will help my eyelids rise above half-mast.  And then I try to squeeze a month of conversation into two hours before telling myself that I really need to make these coffee dates a standing thing.  So that I don't find myself pining for a late night rendezvous with the grocery store.