Dear Kr—
(Oops. Let’s not get sued.)
Dear Go-To-Grocery-Store,
On a rather gloomy March Monday, I headed across the road, fully bracing for a box full of bills left by the mail carrier.
Instead, your carefully selected coupons greeted me. Oh, how my heart soared.
I love snail mail. And quality paper. You must know that about me, because here it is in my hands. I feel so… seen.
Oh, and the Savings! Just for me.
Specials that I and only I received—no other mailbox on the street had this particular curation of coin-saving slips of paper.
I’m not ashamed to say I may have smelled the envelope. (I mean, I know you can’t douse it with cologne, allergens and all. But I feel something like Granny Smith Apple. Fresh-baked bread. Chocolate-something. I don’t know… I don’t write romance, I just know the tropes.)
I nearly skipped into the house, clutching your specials to my chest and humming the slogan from your commercial.
I kicked off my wet shoes and headed for my office, where I could open your letter—I mean sales materials—in peace.
Oh, the goodies that fell to the desk. My happy vibes attracted the attention of three office kitties, all taking turns stomping over the money-saving deliciousness. They were particularly pleased you remembered them as well, with dollars off their Tuna Feast in Gravy and Indoor Hairball Control kibble.
We spent some time, the four of us, thinking of you and assembling our coupons into nice, neat piles in the order the items appear in your well-thought-out store. Bread, orange juice, a little dark Godiva to cut through the writer’s block (I know you love me). The kitty aisle.
Positively giddy at the prospect of seeing you in person, I kissed each kitty on the forehead and promised them I’d return soon with fresh kibble and Tuna Feast galore.
I pulled into your parking lot, slung my bag with your sweet little slips of love—I mean coupons—tucked safely inside, and strolled into the entryway.
I tugged a shopping cart loose, commenced the standard cleaning-the-cart procedure with the antibacterial wipes you so generously provide, and rolled through the automatic doors into the bakery area.
Lemon cake slices and cherry pies galore. Fresh-baked cookies, all iced in springtime colors, with pastel sprinkles piled atop the display tables. Breads of all sorts. A heated display of rotisserie chicken sent up savory aromas. You sure know how to tempt a gal.
I fished out my list and coupons and saw the bread where it’s always been. I slide the bread coupon to the back of the pile. The orange juice is next.
But it’s on the other side of the produce where the flowers used to be, and not at all in the order of my coupons.
And the peanut butter? The peanut butter used to be in the middle of the store. Now it’s on the edge by the bananas, but my coupon for it is in the middle of the pile where three kitties and I agreed it would be found.
The fresh produce spigots kicked on, dousing betrayal over me and a half dozen other of your so-called loyal customers.
Because it was at this first produce bend that we all realized we’d been duped.
Lured into your store with love lett—I mean sales materials—only to be sent on wild graham cracker chases.
We trusted you to stay steady in a world that is in constant upheaval.
Within your walls, we could feel some sense of control over a tiny sliver of our lives with our tiny slivers of happy savings, picked especially for us and printed on real paper sent by snail mail and organized by aisle.
But no. Without our consent, you changed. And we so adored you just the way you were. Who are you trying to impress? Were you leading us on the whole time?
My cereal choices went from “Oooh, I could never try them all,” to “I don’t want any of these.”
My favorite ice cream was removed in favor of the remodel and “new and improved options.”
Even my pickles flipped sides of the aisle, like bad politicians under pressure.
I spent the remainder of my shopping trip in a state of despondent resolve. I found the kitty’s things. At least they’ll be happy. I gave up on half my list and most of the little slips of happy paper.
Partly because I couldn’t find stuff.
Partly because encountering aisle after aisle of other shoppers with the same look of shock was too much to bear on an already gloomy March Monday.
After all five stages of grief wrecked my nervous system, I dragged my load and my unused promises of special savings home.
I showed the kitties their fresh case of Tuna Feast in Gravy and giant bag of Indoor Hairball Control kibble. Satisfied their needs were met, they left me to myself back at the desk where I sat down to write you this letter.
My Couch Lady says I should write letters and burn them. Or hit delete. But for crying out loud, don’t hit send.
But, my dearest Kr—I mean Go-To-Grocery-Store, hitting send on this correspondence is quite cathartic.
On behalf of tired caretakers, discombobulated business people, the elders in our midst, and wonky, glitching authors with writer's block who want the Godiva to be in Aisle 5 forever, stop teasing us.
Show us some real love.
Leave the aisles alone.
Sincerely,
Betrayed and Godiva-less in Indiana
