The Great Grocery Cart Chase

The Great Grocery Cart Chase

By: Someone Who Just Wanted Bananas

      [ The Jobless Blogger ]

There are a few things in life that feel more high-stakes than they probably should. Catching the elevator before the doors close. Replying “you too!” when someone says “Enjoy your meal” and then realizing you’re not eating. And, of course, snagging the one good grocery cart in the entire store parking lot.

Let me explain something. At my local grocery store, there are approximately 87 carts. Of those, 72 have wheels that either lock up like a suspicious shopping cart security system or spin freely like they’re auditioning for “Dancing with the Stars.” Only about five are decent. And of those five, one is the cart: smooth, quiet, sturdy, doesn’t make a sound when it rolls. Glides like a luxury vehicle. I call it The Cadillac.

So there I was on a sunny Saturday morning, grocery list in one hand, reusable bags in the other, caffeine pumping through my bloodstream like I was auditioning for an espresso ad. I spotted The Cadillac parked all alone near the cart corral. Not too close to the other carts, almost like it knew it was special. It practically sparkled.

But just as I took a confident step toward it—bam. Another shopper emerged from the opposite end of the parking lot. We both saw it. Our eyes locked. The music in my head changed from upbeat morning vibes to dramatic spaghetti western standoff.

She was fast, but so was I. We picked up pace, both trying to look casual. I tried to appear uninterested, like, “Oh, this cart? Just walking by it, definitely wasn’t sprinting over here in my flip-flops with Olympic-level intensity.” I even pretended to fiddle with my phone, like I had a text, when I very much did not.

She smiled. I smiled. And then the weirdest thing happened: we both stopped, two feet from the cart, and let out synchronized polite chuckles.

“You go ahead,” she said.

“No, no, you got here first,” I replied, lying through my Midwestern teeth.

She laughed again. “Honestly, it’s fine. I’m just grabbing a few things.”

“Same here!” Another lie. I had a full-scale grocery battle plan in my Notes app.

The standoff was on. We took turns nudging the cart forward like two people trying to awkwardly break up with someone who just brought them dinner. It got to the point where we were both standing beside it, one hand each on the handle, like some kind of grocery-themed Romeo and Juliet.

Finally, in a burst of pure shame-fueled diplomacy, I let go.

“You know what? You take it. I’ll grab one inside.”

She thanked me kindly, then walked away with The Cadillac like she’d just won the Nobel Peace Prize of Produce. I watched her go, the cart gliding like a cloud on wheels, absolutely silent except for the dull roar of my inner monologue screaming “WHY DID YOU GIVE UP? SHE WOULD HAVE.”

I walked inside and got a cart with a wheel that thumped rhythmically like it had a heartbeat and veered slightly to the left like it had dreams of becoming a NASCAR driver. It was the shopping cart equivalent of a midlife crisis.

But hey, I got my bananas. And humility. A lot of humility.