I want.... a shoping cart
Scott says I'm ahead of my time by about 50 years. But I don't care. I want a shopping cart. The kind that city dwelling old ladies push down the street almost in slow motion, each tentative step taken with the utmost concentration.
Yes, maybe I'm ahead of my time: shopping carts are cool. Not only do they fold away when you don't need them, they have bit of a dorky appeal, I have to admit. I want a shopping cart.
I can picture myself shopping for produce at the Union Square farmer's market; darting to Chinatown for some fresh ripe papaya (which won't be all bruised by the time I get home from it hitting against my knee with every step I take). I imagine going wine shopping and buying more than one bottle without buyers remorse setting in a few blocks, when the bag handles begin to cut off circulation to your fingers.
Having a shopping cart doesn't make you old. Or low brow. My shopping cart wouldn't have bits of string and plastic tied to it. Nor would it be decorated with faded fake flowers and leftover gift ribbon. I would never push it in front of me, slowly, in that two-step shuffle of someone who is using it not just for its intended purpose, but also for balance. Me, I would grab the handle and tilt the cart, so that the front wheels are off the ground and off I would stroll, cart behind me like a nice piece of luggage. The gentle summer breeze fluttering the shopping bags. Bright colored produce carefully stowed within the cart's enameled mesh sides, safely nested until our final destination. Perhaps a bunch of sunflowers resting safely against the back. Yes, I want a shopping cart and I'm not afraid to admit it.
I want a shopping cart and I ill walk with it trailing shortly behind me. I will walk with pride and a gin on my face, because I will have a shopping cart.
Yes, maybe I'm ahead of my time: shopping carts are cool. Not only do they fold away when you don't need them, they have bit of a dorky appeal, I have to admit. I want a shopping cart.
I can picture myself shopping for produce at the Union Square farmer's market; darting to Chinatown for some fresh ripe papaya (which won't be all bruised by the time I get home from it hitting against my knee with every step I take). I imagine going wine shopping and buying more than one bottle without buyers remorse setting in a few blocks, when the bag handles begin to cut off circulation to your fingers.
Having a shopping cart doesn't make you old. Or low brow. My shopping cart wouldn't have bits of string and plastic tied to it. Nor would it be decorated with faded fake flowers and leftover gift ribbon. I would never push it in front of me, slowly, in that two-step shuffle of someone who is using it not just for its intended purpose, but also for balance. Me, I would grab the handle and tilt the cart, so that the front wheels are off the ground and off I would stroll, cart behind me like a nice piece of luggage. The gentle summer breeze fluttering the shopping bags. Bright colored produce carefully stowed within the cart's enameled mesh sides, safely nested until our final destination. Perhaps a bunch of sunflowers resting safely against the back. Yes, I want a shopping cart and I'm not afraid to admit it.
I want a shopping cart and I ill walk with it trailing shortly behind me. I will walk with pride and a gin on my face, because I will have a shopping cart.
Labels: whatever
posted by Fe at 3:47 PM
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