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If you’re like me, every time you go to a grocery store, Murphy’s law kicks in. Proceed with caution and with a big smile on your face.  
 
When I arrive, I can never find a parking space because grocery carts have been recklessly abandoned at odd angles all over the parking lot, courtesy of hurried shoppers.  
 
Just inside the door, I find only one cart remaining. It bears the cruel marks of weeks in the rain, with rusted metal and one bent wheel. The cart squeaks and lunges precariously to the left while I dodge a pyramid of lemons just in time to hit a cardboard display of garlic. But I keep smiling.  
 
I rip off a plastic bag from a roll and begin the arduous task of finding its transparent opening. I twist it, rub it, blow on it and finally discard it and dump my onions loosely into the cart without it.  
 
I peel a produce sticker from the center of my shirt which I’ve picked up from the grocery cart handle: 2 for $1. I pray no one has noticed.  
 
I hum while sauntering down an aisle, pick up a box of crackers and search for a “better if sold by” date and find none. Instead, I read: SDML42964. Decoding it, I come up with the fourth month, twenty-ninth day of 1964. No way, I say to myself, am I going to purchase 36 year-old crackers, even though I have food in my refrigerator older than that.  
 
At the meat counter I toss an eye of round roast into my cart, dribbling meat juices down the front of my sweater. No problem. It goes well with the milk from the cottage cheese that just leaked onto my shirt.  
 
A screaming toddler, begging his mother for Fruit Loops, knocks several boxes of cereal to the floor and stomps them into the tile. I hurry up the next aisle to avoid being an eye witness to the whipping which is sure to follow.  
 
I fill my cart with necessities, happily toss a carton of Haagen-Dazs ice cream on top and head for the cashier only to find several lines of bored shoppers idly leafing through seamy tabloids. I size up each shopper, mentally calculate their amount of groceries and decide to switch lanes.  
 
I end up behind a woman who stands with her arms crossed, carefully scrutinizing each entry on the register.  
 
At last, the cashier rings up the total and the lady begins doling out neatly-torn coupons, most of which are outdated. She searches for her checkbook and pen to begin the slow, arduous process of completing her bookkeeping. I watch her with growing concern and muzzle my instinct to kindly suggest that she prepare most of her check ahead of time like the rest of the world does.  
 
Finally, my impatience jumps into overdrive and I steer my overflowing cart over into the Express Lane. The cashier gives me a wilting look as the woman behind me remarks sarcastically, “Hey, don’t you know this is an express lane?”  
 
I smile broadly and respond, “Oh, I’m sorry. I thought ‘express’ meant a fast lane for those in a hurry and I’m in a big hurry!”  
 
Her stares tell me this is NOT FUNNY.  
 
I laugh all the way to the parking lot. I should be ashamed of myself.