Please indulge me and allow me to present an alternative to the Drifters’ dreamy suggestion that Saturday night at the movies is the place to be.
In my most middle aged way possible. I’m almost ashamed to write about it. Actually, I’m not sure if it’s shame driving my hesitation or reluctance. Unwilling to share what Saturday nights have become and what an absolute riot they are.
My version of ‘out out’ on a Saturday night recently, is going to the supermarket. Not. Even.Joking. I even find myself readily equipped for this jaunt, the boot of my car hosting at least 20 different bags for life. Stuffed into one giant bag for life. Which is, naturally, the one I technically need the most but can’t use less chaos erupts and bags spill out everywhere.
Several times recently, I have had to nip to the supermarket for something and it’s just so happened it’s been a Saturday evening. The school holidays result in my days blending together and me having even less of a clue than usual. Hard to believe, I know.
And it’s been a reasonably joyous experience. Quiet. Devoid of harassed shoppers dashing round in a frenetic manner getting frustrated by the slower, built for comfort browser type (me).
Fellow shoppers
I don’t know if this is due to a triple whammy of Covid, Monkey Pox or the possibility of being caught in the background of someone’s TikTok in the supermarket on a Saturday evening but regardless it reduces the number of fellow shoppers I have to navigate.
Which in turn, reduces my desire to never go out in public again. Responsible parenting demands I consistently feed our languishing, bottomless pits lest they perish so, doing the ‘big shop’ is necessary.
I’m apparently raising three teenage Hansel and Gretels who are happy to eat the witch (again, me) out of house and home. Doesn’t matter the content, if you put a little plate of snacks out in front of them, they’re eating them.
Saturday evening supermarket staff are also seemingly more relaxed and willing to help. When asked where a particular item might be, the kind lad actually guided me to the aisle and helped me look, as opposed to nodding his head in the general direction of an aisle between Narnia and Nowhereland.
Act of kindness
A small act of kindness on his part, possibly due to my no longer being a spring chicken, and that’s okay. Being gently led to my desired product is just one amongst many, so many great things about getting older.
And the things that aren’t so great? Well those are the things we can all laugh about. Together. In the middle of the supermarket aisle. Whilst trying to juggle an abundance of spontaneous items not included on any list stuffed in my pocket.
Why don’t supermarkets have stacks of baskets in the middle of the store? It surely can’t just be me overestimating how much they can carry? Or how little willpower I have when passing anything with a yellow ticket?
TKMaxx has it sussed. There is a whole ream of baskets upstairs. And not just ordinary baskets. Pull along baskets. Ideally placed for you to pop in that Halloween Gonk you absolutely must have (in August) or the over tired small child fed up with being dragged round.
Fraught husbands
Please note, they are not big enough to fraught husbands. Not that I can categorically assure you of this, he refused to even try to fit.
With people now announcing 40 is the new 30, I presume 50 is the new 40? If so, I’d like to propose Saturday night supermarket shopping is the new Sunday night clubbing that my friends and I were so zealous about in the 90s.
Not to put too fine a point on it, that little birdhouse in our soul being the most important thing helping us with Sunday worship religiously saying cheerio to the long week just conquered.
Welcoming in the new one with copious vodka orange’s and twenty rounds on the sticky dancefloor.
Whether you believe me and give the Saturday evening supermarket shopping a try or not, all I know with absolute certainty is, the older I get the more 9pm is the new midnight.
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