Dashing Through the Aisles

[PlanetMom]

Although shopping during the season of giving can be a wonderfully uplifting experience that fills me with the warm fuzzies, it can drive me to the brink of insanity faster than being struck in the ankles with a loaded cart--repeatedly. That being said, I embark with joy in my heart and green in my wallet come December, eager to spread Christmas cheer, but before I can even check one gift from my list, my spirits become dampened—for a sleigh-full of reasons.

 

The challenge: To survive the ordeal—merriment still intact.

 

My troubles usually begin long before I join the frenzied masses of fools who flock to shopping meccas (like a bunch of deranged squirrels scuttling around inside an acorn factory). Often, the fun starts in the parking lot, where scads upon scads of idiots polish and perfect the art of being hostile, in preparation for the main event that will likely occur inside. Each stop is nearly identical—“God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen” rings clearly in the background, as do the cheerful clangs of Salvation Army bells. All the while horns are blaring, people are shouting and fists are waving anything but hello.

 

Ironic, huh.

 

Frantically I circle, AND circle, AND CIRCLE the silly lot, praying that I’ll someday find a space within a mile or two of the entrance. As I pass others, all vying for the same tiny sliver of pavement, it’s clear that the mood is anything but cheery. At best, most offer a halfhearted smile. Others, a glare that bellows “If you so much as THINK about taking that spot, I’ll deck your halls for sure, Holly!”

 

So much for peace on earth.

 

As a result, I’ve devised a rather clever strategy for expediting the process. In brief, it involves creeping alongside those who appear to be leaving stores for the day. Naturally, I target the poor souls loaded down with boxes and bags, indicating an imminent departure. My method, however, is far from foolproof. Sometimes said behavior is merely associated with making a deposit—the first of many for some—which is what I would likely be doing if I weren’t touring the damned parking lot.

 

Upon surviving the pandemonium outside, it’s on to the shopper’s circus inside where I toss my cherubs into one of those charming carts with rickety wheels, a drool-covered handle and a child-restraint strap so filthy its original color cannot be detected. You know the one. Of course, I choose it because it’s the best of the bunch.

 

Aimlessly I wander the aisles, dodging errant carts left and right and dealing with any number of irksome obstacles. Fallen merchandise, empty boxes, abandoned children—you name it; if it interrupts the flow of traffic, it’ll be there. What's more, “the help” is often anything BUT helpful. I’m fascinated by the ease with which the phrase, “We’re out of stock,” seems to roll off their pierced tongues and how readily they roll their eyes if we so much as ask, "What the hell is a Webkin?" Stinking little freaks anyway.

 

As I swim through a sea of patrons, it’s plain to see that not all temperaments are created equal—even during this hap-happiest time of the year. There are those on a frenzied mission, wearing a look that can only be described as pure panic. In these instances, I've determined it's best to simply clear a path for them.

 

Others, whose indecisiveness is rivaled only by a propensity to dawdle, might make it to the check-out line before January—provided there’s a healthy tailwind. All the while Christmas melodies fill the air along with those maddening little store ads at roughly 120 decibels. Joy.

 

But the day just wouldn’t be complete without coping with unruly children—namely, mine. Holiday shopping with kids in tow is akin to taking a dog to a picnic. When it’s good it’s great; but when it’s bad, it’s downright ugly. Something about being immersed in a veritable toy-lover’s paradise magically sets the stage for one of those kicking, screaming, red-faced tantrum thingies. But never mind MY behavior.

 

My charges whine about toys they can’t have, food they must wait for, bathroom breaks that are too few and far between and check-out lines without sugar. No wonder I mutter to myself as I dash through the aisles--something about having a merry little STRESS-FREE Christmas…or at least one with tolerable stress.

 

It’s definitely on my wish list, Santa.

 

Planet Mom: It’s where I live. Visit me there at www.notesfromplanetmom.com.

 

Copyright 2007 Melinda L. Wentzel