I used to love going to the grocery store. Cooking was one of my favorite things to do, and I relished trying new recipes, especially the ones that I found in my monthly Food & Wine magazine. I strolled up and down each aisle with my list, but I was always ready for inspiration to strike in an unexpected place, like a school of bright salmon fillets or a particularly beautiful bunch of colorful carrots. Inspiration also struck frequently in the ice cream aisle.

These days, I can’t stand going to the grocery store. It feels like a tease, like a promising place that you quickly find out has no breathable air. At our local Whole Foods, you park underground and take an elevator up to the food level. Of course there are stairs, those fancy flights from my past that are now beyond my reach. I roll through the store and I think about how different my purchases are than they used to be. I can’t summon up much excitement for selecting food that someone else will be cooking. So I don’t go to the grocery store if I can help it.

But I did go today, because my sister-in-law is in town to help and I have a policy against sending guests to the store alone. It seems somewhat unfriendly. We parked in an accessible space. I rolled down the ramp and headed towards the elevator, but my path was blocked by about 47 shopping carts all nestled snugly, and nowhere near their designated partition. I was complaining mildly as I made my way back through the parking lot and around them. A woman who was getting on the elevator with us looked back at the carts.

“People don’t care,” she said. “It’s just like people who park in a handicapped spot even if there’s a space for them out on the street.”

I didn’t exactly understand what she meant by that, but I assumed she was talking about people without placards using spots meant for people with placards. So I replied, “Yes, that is really annoying and I can’t believe people do it. Even before I had a wheelchair, it would never have occurred to me to park in a handicapped spot. It’s just a terrible thing to do.”

“It is,” she agreed. “I mean, I did it once, but I had my grandma’s placard. Still a policeman saw me, stopped me, and it cost me $1200.”

She laughed. “So now I tell people: definitely don’t do that.”

I had no words for this woman who was clearly the kind of asshole who takes a handicapped parking space when she doesn’t need one. Luckily the elevator ride was over at that point, so I made my way to the store and left the odd—but honest!—conversation behind. I had more important things to focus on, namely, getting through this experience.

I spend most of my days understanding my limitations, but for some reason the grocery store really throws me. It’s hard to believe I can’t reach for a container of hummus or open a refrigerator door to select a dozen eggs. It’s hard to believe that when I do go to the grocery store, I can’t prepare any of the food I come home with. I find the grocery store demoralizing precisely because I once found it so encouraging. Because this place that was fun isn’t fun anymore.

In these moments, I try to channel Rob, whose hatred of the grocery store rivals only his hatred of Party City. The bright lights, crowded aisles, and rows and rows of colorful packaging make him want to cry. But that’s just not me. I want to go to the grocery store, park my car and hop out. I want to take the stairs. I want to come home and prepare a meal for my family.

As I write this, my sister-in-law is cooking. We’ll sit together tonight, enjoying the food, and the day’s frustrations will fade. I have no immediate plans to return to the grocery store, and that’s just fine with me.

Share this post on your social platform