I am not a shopper. Quick ins and outs are what appeal to me. The sooner the ordeal is over the better.
Unfortunately, it is not always that simple. No matter how many times I go to the supermarket nothing is ever where it should be. Or, for that matter, are things where they were the last time I finally found them, usually with the help of a mother pushing a full cart often loaded down with at least one child aboard and several in tow. They seem to have the whole joint mapped out and committed to memory. One of these days I will figure out why I can remember obscure facts read in a book months or years ago and never ever remember where fairly common household staples reside.
One of the values of shopping at small, locally owned shops is that if one is befuddled one only need ask the owner, who invariably has your buying habits inscribed in memory. I ventured into one store several days ago in search of a can of hot peppers. As soon as I told the owner what I was looking for she led me to the right shelf, picked up the can, handed it to me, and assured me that this was the product my wife usually bought. It is nice to know I am following in such dependable footsteps.
Americans are shoppers. My sources of delight rest elsewhere. Besides, if I want to test my fragile ego there are plenty of daily opportunities to do the job. One of these days, and it will not be soon, we will run out of living space on the planet because landfills will have taken over. We are all complicit in this. When the landscape is transformed into one vast stretch of landfills perhaps we will come to our senses.