Have you ever had one? If you did, you’d probably remember it. Early on, when I moved from the city to suburbia…the 70’s, I flipped out somewhere between the aisles stacked with peanut butter, jelly, mustard, mayo and ketchup. The word condiment sent me into a dizzying anxiety attack as I realized: I didn’t want to be here. I wanted to be sitting under a weeping willow tree writing poetry, looking out at a glistening lake. But the words…”what’s for dinner?” pummeled any attempt at rhyme or meter.

I watched as women, some younger and many older perused the shelves, studying lists they might have prepared all week. I envied their focus, any focus. I watched, mouth dry, as coupons, like tickets to a sold-out concert, sprung from their hands at check-out, while I stood by inadequate.

Earlier, I’d snapped at the deli man who tried to engage me in flirtacious chatter. “Ah,” he laughed, “I see the girl has a temper.”

“Ah,” I wished I’d answered. “You can shove the half pound of Muenster.”