I cannot imagine that any adult actually enjoys grocery shopping.

As I have grown older, my relationship with grocery shopping has deteriorated. I used to actually enjoy going shopping with my mom when I was young. But when I was young I also enjoyed eating canned meat, watching The Sound of Music, and, for an awkward period of time, cross-stitching, all of which I now reflect upon with varying levels of concern for my younger self.

But then I grew up and grocery shopping became a have to instead of a want to.

The whole experience is dreadful from the beginning. The parking lot is like an asphalted airport terminal with passengers rushing to catch flights. People are hastily moving in every direction, emboldened with their personal chariot (i.e., the shopping cart).

In the rare occasion I find a close parking spot, I am reminded that there really is no winning in the grocery parking lot. Although this leaves me in close proximity to the store, it also results in parking lot purgatory when it comes to returning the cart because there are no close cart corrals. Do I walk it to a cart corral or back to the store?

And it does not get any better inside the store.

In full produce disclosure, I have minimal knowledge about the fruit and vegetable selection process beyond avoiding anything with heavy bruising or the presence of a fuzzy growth. But other than the obvious, I just do what I see everyone else doing – feeling the fruit. I pick it up, but I have no idea for what I am feeling. One feels hard; I do not know what the means. One feels squishy; I have no idea what that means either.

I grew up in a McIntosh household, but we are now a Gala family. I lack well-functioning taste buds, so they all taste the same to me. But I can tell you what is not the same: the location of these apples in the produce. I know the exact location where I found the Galas the previous week and now the Fujis are there.

When it comes to bananas, do they all have to be completely green? Can’t some be green and others yellow, so I can eat a banana in the next day or two? If I am buying bananas on Sunday, I have to project what day of the week it will be ready for consumption.

If I am honestly self-evaluating, I am decent with dairy (aware of the hidden milk gems with the later expiring dates behind the early-expiring front line), below average with meat (always buy boneless chicken breasts and ground turkey regardless of what we need), and average with frozen foods (cannot seem to ever locate the chameleon of frozen foods: stir-fry vegetables).

While these areas all have frustrating attributes, the station of cold-cut stress known as the deli counter is a societal curse.

It all starts with the directionless numbering system, which is utilized at times and abandoned at other times. The “Now Serving Number” sign behind the counter is on “86” but I pull a “29” from the archaic red ticket dispenser.

It is the only place where human beings do not wait in linear formation. Everyone stands beside each other along the glass, looking at the meats and cheeses as if they have ever changed in anyone’s life.

As a result of the disorganization, when I hear, “Who’s next?” it is awkward. I think I know where I am in line, but I do not want to declare my position out of line-cutting trepidation.

In observing people at the deli, they tend to (a) buy a disproportionate amount of deli meat to their family size, (b) be very particular in their preferences, and (c) add a qualifying comment following their order.

“Give me about a pound of the mesquite smoked turkey, sliced.” And then the qualifier: “Not too thick on the slices though.”

Anything else? (There always is).

“I’ll take three quarters of a pound of the smoked pastrami.” And then the qualifier: “That’s on sale, right?”

Anything else? (Of course, we haven’t even gotten to the cheeses yet).

“Yeah let’s just go with a quarter pound of Wisconsin cheddar, and I better get six slices of the white Vermont cheddar too.”

The deli is an exasperating merger of meat terminology, kids clamoring for cheese, and shoppers ordering similarly sounding meat and geographical cheeses.

“What can I get for you?” says the deli worker to me.

He has been there since 1987 according to his nametag. You are not going to see a deli worker who started in, say, 2015. They are all like mortgage payments – they are going to be there for 30 years.

“I will take a half a pound of turkey please.”

And then a follow-up question: “Do you want low sodium, all-natural smoked, or blackened oven roasted?”

I just want regular deli turkey, so I point to what is closest to me.

“Sliced or shaved?”

I know the answer to this one, because our family is pro-slice. After telling him sliced, he of course needs to physically slice the turkey because they rarely have sliced meat ready, only shaved.

He chunks a slab of turkey on the scale and it settles at 0.58 pounds. I do not know why this unauthorized overage bothers me, but it does.

“What else can I get for you?”

“Can I please have a half-pound of Swiss cheese?”

“Baby, laced, or deli style?”

All of these questions and follow-up questions result in a perpetual verbal volley.

And if the whole shopping experience is not stressful enough, it culminates with the gauntlet of mayhem known as the checkout.

Why is the process in which I am giving my money to a business so frustrating for me? From counting my items to finding a relatively tolerable checkout line, it takes judgment, patience, and efficient cart navigation to make it through the checkout.

I think most will agree that having a child is one of life’s greatest blessings . . . except in a grocery store. As I am bagging my items, my child is grabbing checkout lane randomness. I bag a few items and next thing I know my daughter is holding a Cosmo magazine, York peppermint patty, and a pack of 9-volts. At this point, I am actually sweating, and then I pay $100 for items I would have guessed were going to be $50.00 to $60.00.

Maybe what is ultimately so frustrating about the grocery store is that it involves so much work. I have to check for bruised produce, expired items, dented canned goods, and cracked eggs. Where else is there so much pressure on the consumer?

And it never fails; when I am in line getting ready to checkout, I know I forgot something. Why do I feel this way? Because I have inevitably forgotten something. Something important too, but I do not know what it is until I get home.

And that means a return trip back to the store.