Apples, Not Applesauce!

I like to think of myself as low-maintenance. For example, it takes me exactly zero seconds to do my hair in the morning. Also, I can wear the same pants for weeks on end without a second thought, although others have been known to hold their nose as they walk past.

However, there is one facet of life where I am extremely picky: apples. Any apple that I eat must be almost perfect, and by that I mean it must be crisp and crunchy, with minimal-to-no imperfections.

Half of my grocery shopping time is allotted to picking out apples. I hunch over the bin, crowding everybody else out, and examine my options with an intensity usually reserved for a trained professional diffusing an explosive device that is ticking down to 0:00. Any sort of bruise or blemish immediately disqualifies a candidate. Size also matters. There’s no point in buying a small apple, and giant ones scare me. (What happened? Is it mutated?) It has to be perfectly medium.

When I finally find one that meets my standards, I gently place it the requisite plastic bag, being careful not to bump it against any others that have already made the cut. Once I’ve got my desired amount, I then finish my shopping, protecting my apple bag like a mother does a newborn.

But eventually I get to the checkout and everything falls apart. Cashiers have no concept of gentleness when it comes to apples. They grab the bag, slam it down on the scale, then unceremoniously toss it onto the conveyer belt, rendering all of my previous efforts pointless. By the time I have them again in my possession, they look like mob goons have been working them over for information for several hours in a dark, deserted warehouse.

Sometimes, I make a big show of gently placing my apples down amidst the rest of my purchases, in hopes the cashier might see it and realize that I’d appreciate it if they were to handle them delicately. It never happens. Instead, they ask me if I have any coupons as they happily turn my apples into applesauce. I respond by glaring at them and wishing I was the type of person who isn’t afraid to make a scene in a public place.

I do have another option, and that is the self-checkout lines. However, I refuse to use them. I mean, I’ve already walked all over the store gathering my food and putting up with oblivious customers who park in the middle of the aisles and talk on their phones. By the time I get to the checkout, I’m exhausted. Why should I have to check myself out? Heck, doing so might not leave me with enough energy to drive home! What do they think I am, some sort of robot!

And so I’m forced to eat imperfect apples and whine about it in this very blog. But it was either that or make up a poem about not having anything to write about. (“I try to think, but my mind is blank, I’ve got no ideas, as a writer I stank”)

I think I made the right decision.

Maybe.

Probably not. That seems like that would have been a really good poem.