Hate is a strong word. But I hate having to make a 2nd trip to get groceries out of the car. I don’t know if I’m stupid or stubborn, but ‘ll be Herbert Hoover damned if I do it. Of all the things to be anal about, it’s ridiculous that I choose this one. It doesn’t matter how many bags I have, what time of day it is, or what risk of injury I put myself at, all these groceries are coming with me in 1 trip. Best believe that. And I will use whatever body part necessary to make sure. Hands, forearms, chest, teeth, and even my pinky are all acceptable means to hold or trap the bags for long enough for me to make it into the house. As silly as it sounds, I relish the challenge. Call my life boring, but I feel profoundly accomplished when I make it inside with everything intact. Now granted, my thighs and arms are killing me. And I can hardly breathe. But I made it. I won. And that’s all that matters. Yes, I’m fully aware that if I were to just make 2 trips I could probably do it quicker. Trying to strategically drape bags across various parts of my body is time consuming and mentally taxing, but I don’t care. I refuse to have my life dictated by inanimate objects. Have there been mishaps? Of course. Broken eggs, crushed boxes and spilt milk to name a few. But I ain’t cryin’ over that. I’m a frickin’ winner. That is, until I finally get to the front door………………..and realize my keys are still in my pocket.
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