Panic in the Butter Aisle

Panic in the butter aisle.

My wife, Gina, handed me a grocery list on my way out the door.

Which struck fear into the very core of my being.

Because I knew what awaited me. That is, though there might only have been three simple items on the list, once I got to the store, I would find that, for each of those three simple items, there would be multiple variations modified by multiple adjectives that, for me, a simple and common man, would be undecipherable, unfathomable and, most important, unable to allow me to go home until I figured it out.

Lincoln had the Civil War.

I faced “One pint of buttermilk.”

Scientists have striven for ages to pry Earth’s secrets from her clasped hands.

While I have striven for over ten minutes to decide which kind of cheese to buy.

So there I stood, with the words “Salted Butter” in front of me. And butter is the worst. Multiple variations and sizes. Everything from “Unsalted” to “Salted and Sweet.”

Which is when I almost gave in and called home.

Yes, my wife has learned that, when I go to the store, she has to keep her phone handy. That’s because I’ll likely be calling home for more details about items on the list.

But, instead, I defined myself.

Right there in the butter aisle, I made a stand – for myself and for all men. Like William Wallace in “Braveheart,” except I yelled “I will buy the salted and sweet butter!” instead of “Freedom!” A little longer, yes, but just as powerful.

And my decision will echo through the years.

But then came the cheese aisle.

Where’s my phone?