I have always thought supermarkets are one of the most revealing public places.
People arrive carrying entire invisible lives.
Today I overhead a middle-aged couple discussing tortilla brands.
“This one has fewer calories,” she said.
A simple statement, but it contained years of shared meals, health concerns, habits, compromises and routines.
Around them were exhausted parents after soccer practice.
Older couples debating soup choices for the pantry.
College students quietly calculating totals in their heads.
Shift workers still in their uniform, making a dinner pitstop.
Grocery carts have become accidental biographies.
Coffee. Ground, pods, instant.
Pasta. Whole wheat, gluten-free, shapes.
Frozen dinners.
Organic or not strawberries.
Ice cream flavors.
A bottle of wine that may have nothing to do with entertaining and everything to do with the kind of day someone is having.
Supermarkets are one of the few remaining places where ordinary life still reveals itself without much performance.
No one is trying to impress anyone while deciding between two brands of pasta sauce.
People are simply making another week of life function comfortably.
Feed a family.
Stretch a budget.
Celebrate an occassion.
Recover from illness.
Hundreds of separate lives move through the same aisles together, each carrying their own worries, routines, celebrations and small comforts.
And it all fits inside a shopping cart.
I find something tender about that. Do you?