Grocery store woes

I was pleased to find that my new grocery store offered carts in two sizes. I often didn't need the large one, and the smaller one felt like driving a sports car instead of a behemoth van. I could zip around corners in the bakery faster, without tipping over the displays, and I could beat out the behemoths to the frozen section before the last gallon of ultra-rich Edy's ice cream on sale disappeared. But one day, when they were all out of smaller carts and I had to settle for the behemoth, I discovered another reason for preferring the smaller ones: the larger ones do not fit through the check-out lanes.

They must have built the lanes first, cramming a bunch of them in (I don't know why, since all 40 are never open at the same time anyway), and then realized that the carts didn't fit. Instead of tearing out the lanes and making them wider, they ordered new carts in a smaller size. "But if we only offer the small carts," they thought, "our customers won't buy as much and we won't be able to pay for all these new carts. We'd better keep the large carts, too."

So you squeeze. The oversized cart budges a little. You squeeze some more. It budges some more. You take a deep breath, grit your teeth, and concentrate. You strain at the cart and it ever so slowly grinds and screeches through the lane, shaking the displays on either side. Candy and magazines spill onto the belt, the floor, your cart. You need one final push. You back up and run with all your might at the cart, shoving it through until it finally emerges at the other end, like a difficult birth, and other shoppers begin clapping. And when the cashier asks if you need help taking your groceries to the car, you gratefully load them in the waiting carrier's arms, climb in the cart, and wait for him to push you to your car.