Sweet Dreams Are Made of Anything to Get You to the Sea

Yesterday was our grocery shopping day. I'm along to drive and to walk near the cart while Sigrid pushes it. In fifty-five years I've graduated from being on my mom's hand to being where my wife can see me. I got lost on our last trip to this same store I'm reminded, so stick close. I decide I don't want to argue that I didn't get lost at all primarily because the drive home in icy silence is no fun for either of us.

We are just about done-actually we are. We've finished the compulsory part of the program, the throwing stuff into the cart and are now getting set for the paying and leaving part. This is the worst portion of the event for me because I fidget and there's lots of stuff to distract me including gee-gaws, snacks of processed meats not found in real life and magazines with covers showing spaceships landing on the decks of aircraft carriers or Kanye telling one of the Kardashian Kousins (not my first choice of word) something about Beyonce's new album, or not.

Except yesterday while we're standing in line, one aisle over, were two young men-I would have guessed late teens early twenties but hold that thought-with a shopping cart with a half dozen or more cardboard takeout boxes with (I'll say) forty-pieces each of rotisserie chicken (the good stuff, because you can see the grease marks through the cardboard and the aroma is mouthwatering).

The two were wearing tuxedos and the taller of the two was taking pictures with a camera that cost more than my car. They were inching forward in the checkout line and one of them slid the left sleeve of his tuxedo jacket up so he could peer at his watch every ten seconds and wonder why the time was flying by.

Curiosity may have killed the cat but ich sterbe aus neugier. I walked over to them and opened with "I'm sure you're sick of being asked this, but I have to-why are you fellows so dressed up?" The one without the camera explained they were going to a wedding in twenty minutes and added almost as an after thought, "and I'm the one getting married."

Wow. Talk about moving at the speed of life. By the time you read this, he and his bride will be married nearly eighteen hours. And you thought your Saturday had been eventful. He smiled nervously and thanked me for wishing him well as I shook his hand and my head (one with good wishes and one in disbelief). They almost lost their place in line, but not quite. Innocence will teach you what life assumed you knew. And I wouldn't want to be there again but you go one ahead and enjoy.
-bill kenny