I’m betting there is an undetectable rise in cortisol when the doors slide open. The rows are ten across and twenty deep.

First thought: Is the cart going to come free easily? Second thought: Is the cart going to roll with dexterity? The goal is no clunkity clunk. You know, the one wheel with a chip on it, and everyone hears you coming. You swear they breathed ‘sucker’ as you passed by. Or, worse yet, a wheel clogged, rolling with resistance, causing you to expend energy to keep it on the straight and narrow. That is living in quiet desperation. No one knows the trouble you’ve seen.

Yesterday was Mother’s Day. I walked through the sliding doors, and the only carts available were scattered willy nilly in the foyer, say, less than a dozen. I grabbed one which needed an alignment. I chose another one with a couple of banged up wheels. I didn’t want to be seen or heard. I wasn’t a sucker, so I plucked a third one.

Beautiful. Smooth. Rolled like a rail until I crossed the inner door, then it stopped like a mule. If I had a small branch a would have used it on its hind quarters. I left it stranded like a car on the shoulder. The grocery police will come by and put an orange sticker with the date and time of discovery.

A cart was needed, so I walked to the other entrance. Same thing. A bunch of carts left behind like the rapture. Further in more  were stacked, and my cortisol spiked. Am I going to be able to yank one out?

I got one, and three of the four wheels wobbled. Geeze Louise. No more choosing. Off I went into the isles, the faster I walked the louder I was. With my apology face firmly affixed, I was on mission.  I wondered if the cashiers could hear me from the dairy section.

I won’t get into the cart corral foibles. Large cart here. Small cart here. I better stop. Now my blood pressure is mixing with cortisol.   

There’s your sign.