I don’t shop. I make a grocery list — with care and precision as though it were holy writ — and go straight to where each item is located, never wavering from my appointed rounds, eyes focusing straight ahead. What’s the value of wandering aimlessly through rows of goods, pondering if I might stuff my larder with items I will not use as they molder untouched past their “use by” dates? Why not make a plan and efficiently carry it out?
For several years I have bought only for myself, except for holiday gift giving, and then I enjoy the thrill of the hunt, which satisfies any shopping gene that may have slipped into my otherwise shop-free DNA.
The last of three brothers, I was born into a household after my parents emerged from The Great Depression with solid financial footing. I was the young son allowed to roam the small town and expected home for supper, with no questions asked where I was or what I did. In my adulthood someone once labeled me “an independent cuss,” which I suppose grew naturally from my childhood. Was I destined to be self-absorbed, with a dash of haughtiness thrown in? Probably…