I hate Fairway. Especially when I’m not there. Once I’m there, I sink into the madness of trying to avoid collisions with other shopping carts while remembering what’s available on which floor. (The store’s decision to superimpose one section of perishables — produce — directly over the other — meat and fish — is deeply wrong, even if, given the layout of the square footage, it was probably unavoidable.) I follow my route, almost habitual now, and hope that what I’m looking for will be on the shelves. I endure checkout, which is not so bad really — because I’m used to it.

Once I get through the bottleneck between the organic vegetables and the stairwell, I notice how disagreeable everyone is in this unpleasant atmosphere, which is that of a parking garage. I wonder if I’ll get stuck on the elevator, although this has not yet happened. I ask a staffer where they’ve put the fresh herbs this time. I navigate the stocking-cart-clogged aisles, and consider how best to deal with the young men who, quite understandably, pretend that customers aren’t there. I listen to kiddies in meltdown. I push on and, eventually, make my escape. 

It’s when I get home that the irritation burns: I never want to go there again. 

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