the wave of guilt has crashed upon my shore. when I get in these situations, experience has taught me that the only thing to do is confess. I went grocery shopping at a Meijer sister-store, not my neighborhood Meijer.
it was innocent enough--I had an appointment on the other side of two towns, I had a list, I saw the Meijer, I pulled over. no premeditation, no malicious intent...but what I experienced may possibly impact my grocery commute and my gasoline budget, forever! (cue ominous organ music playing duhnt, duhnt, duhhhh)
this sister superstore was amazing! it opened onto a spacious and clean produce section with an airy open eatery section next door. this store was organized in a logical manner, everything I looked for seemed to jump out at me and scream "here I am, choose me!" the decor was fresh, stylish, with the new Meijer font everywhere, even on store-brand packaging.
after making yet another "I-can't-believe-this," comparison between this store and my now passe Meijer, I felt like a stereotypical, male-teenage tv character who suddenly discovers his girlfriend has a more hipper, cooler older sister and is now waaaay too eager to ditch frumpy immature sister. that's when the immortal complaint of Jan Brady shot through my head; "Marsha! Marsha! Marsha!"
I could feel the loyalty bonds to the Jan sister-store slacken. this was the Marsha sister-store and she was cool. and to add injury to insult to the Jan sister-store--I felt cool to be hangin' out in Marsha's store.
so, there you have it, my true nature. it seems that deep down I'm really just a shallow adolescent boy won over by good lighting and a snappy font. but, before you judge me too harshly put yourself in my shoes. how would you react to a Marsha Meijer associate wearing a cobalt blue, freshly pressed button-down shirt, who actually stopped what they were doing and then gave you the correct location of the item you were looking for?! cobalt blue, people! cobalt blue! the Jan Meijer associates are still sporting their stretched out, washed-out, supposed-to-be-red golf shirts, that barely cover the Jan associate belly! ick, ick, and triple ick!
slowly, in a I-don't-wanna'-leave-Utopia manner, I pushed my cart towards the exit, walking passed the line of check-out lanes. my ten year old pointed out that there were 11 check-out lanes open and all 8 of the u-scans were open and working. "wow, that's 19 lanes that are open mom," he commented. "groovy," I mutter. "groovy and outta' sight!"
