Annoyance, Bliss, and Carts.

I have developed a love-hate relationship with grocery shopping. "You've posted about the grocery store before!" you might say.
You're right. I have nothing else to do in my tiny little life but tell you about my frequent trips to the supermarket.
And when I say frequent, I mean that I go at least three times a week. I'm one of those people.
First of all, I'm on Weight Watchers. It is yet another ill-fated attempt to drop poundage so that I might look like my eighteen-year-old self in a pair of shorts this summer. If I'm lucky, the shorts won't have a name like "crops" which mean, they skim just below the knee, a.k.a. culottes. I...hated...culottes as a child. Loathed them. Was made fun of because of them. My mother insisted on them though, in addition to "pedal pushers." Dear Lord, pedal pushers?
My goal is to wear a pair of shorts with the inseam measurement noted in the description. Preferably 5". Not 3". I'm not that crazy, and no amount of Weight Watchers will get rid of the road map that has become my thigh region.

Per usual, I have regressed. The reason I've mentioned the Weight Watchers is that it has spawned a new shopping obsession based on the Points Plus system. I must know the point value in my purchase. Say that five times fast. I drag along my Kindle (because I'm hip and fancy) and plug in fat, carbohydrates, protein and fiber. Or FCPF, as we cool people like to use our acronyms.

Yes, the calorie deprivation is altering my sanity even more. Keep reading.

Usually, I'm okay when it comes to regular food. Vegetables, fruit, meat, etc., I can handle. It's just that I grew up understanding that a prerequisite to bedtime was a snack, and that hasn't changed. Not in thirty years. I still need a bedtime snack. For a while I was hooked on a bowl of cereal, until Oprah said something ghastly about eating cereal before bed, (I can't remember what it was) and now I don't do that anymore. Well, usually I don't. Desserts have become a problem for me. I like desserts the way they are supposed to be: ooey, gooey, flaky, sweet and chock-full of calories. This business of replacing butter and oil with things like applesauce or pumpkin is really for the birds. Come on, you know it is.
But I try to convince myself I like it.
I like lying to myself, apparently. Again, it's the overall calorie deprivation.
So I meander through my favorite supermarket, which is kind of like Cheers, because everybody knows my name, and I look for alternatives and substitutes to my favorite desserts without sacrifice, which is really just laughable.
I become annoyed with aimless shoppers. They are clearly not with me on my mission. Husbands and wives are the worst.
"Did you get coffee last time?" (I'm already annoyed; I get coffee every time. Is this a real question?)
"I don't remember. I liked what we had, though."
"Should I get Michigan Cherry or Hazelnut?"
"Do we need dog food?"
"Did you hear what little Jack said to me this morning?" (Huh? Focus on the coffee. Or move, because I'm trying to plug in the FCPF on that Swiss Miss you're hovering over).

I am mended, immediately, as Greg Laswell's voice croons over the stereo system. It's just for me, I am convinced. I am blissfully aware of the energy I put into my mission here at the store, and Greg has reminded me. You never know, I could run into him this summer, in my 5" inseam shorts. Plug in those numbers, sister!

Calorie. Deprivation.

Thinking of Greg Laswell's deep brown eyes reminds me of chocolate chips and how I miss my love affair with Tollhouse cookies. How big of a sin would those be, on Weight Watchers. Might as well cruise the baking aisle to see the point-reality.

I settle on a box of something called Skinny Cow, picturing a heifer with an unnaturally whittled middle grinning seductively as if these treats, lacking in caloric bliss, will make me do the same. I doubt it.
And I don't know that she's a heifer. I just like the word.

As I battle check-out, my least favorite part, because twice now someone has attempted to slash my achilles tendon with their cart, I make a mental note to buy a pedometer next time.
All this searching has got to be earning me Activity Points. AP.