Stupormarket musings.

All my life I’ve loathed shopping, especially supermarketing. So much so that way back when I was a very young adult, and thus even more of a dolt than I am now, one of my direst dreads was that I would someday end up as one of those sad-looking old guys to be seen wandering up and down the supermarket aisles in the wake of their specials-shopping wives.

And now, of course, decades later, every time I find myself wandering after my wife up and down the aisles in the same crowd-, superfluity- and claustrophobia-stupefied way that I once so dreaded, I wryly regret failing to learn earlier in life that we should be wary of what we wish, or, as in this case, don’t wish for.

So I entirely blame myself for finding myself in this situation, not my wife. And thus, feeling that it’s entirely up to me to find a way to save myself from going totally off my trolley with the super-tedium of the experience, I some time ago started wondering how to make myself, less of a basket-case, stupormarketingwise.

The strategy I came up with hasn’t been completely successful, I’m afraid, but has considerably improved the situation for both parties.

For a start, it leaves my wife free to fully enjoy the first stage of her supermarketing, which is snoopermarketing around to see what’s available at acceptable if not affordable prices this week, while I go off unsupervised to check-out what’s currently on the shelves at the shopping centre’s two free book exchanges.

That way, even though most of the books in stock every week are vampire and assorted other fantasy fables or else bodice-ripping romances and other such gruesome generics of the chick- and clit-lit genre, there are usually a few there that look bearable enough to take with me to sample while my wife’s busy perusing the package labels on products whose contents and prices she’s comparing.

But, lest I block the paths of fellow trolley-pushers, get jostled by hordes of harassed shop-til-they-droppers , or else fail to keep pace with my wife and her purchases and thus have to figure-out where she’s disappeared to, I don’t get too engrossed in my reading.

Nor, however, do I any longer allow myself to descend back into the trance-like state that was my former defence against the dullness of stupormarketing, but instead choose to switch to my new super-musing mode.

A state of mind in which I can amuse myself by dreaming-up new writing topics, or coming-up with fresh thoughts on one or more of the topics I’m currently tackling, or even simply playing mind-games with with whatever words happen to come to mind via either via my subconscious or from my subliminal viewing of the brand-names on the stupormarket shelves.

I find that I get such a superabundance of thinking and writing done this way that I’ve almost come to not only almost enjoy the stupormarketing experience, but also to extend my new-found supermusing technique to taking productive advantage of other situations I’ve formerly dreaded as dead-boring.

To getting some mental writing done instead of wasting my time, not to mention getting bored witless, waiting for public transport or the start of events for which, due to my distaste for last-minute rushing, I’ve turned-up super-early.

Or when, having arrived either typically too early or even right on time for appointments with doctors, dentists or other inevitably tardy professionals, a little mental literary effort gives me all the protection I need from not only tedium, but also and more crucially from the temptation to risk the kind of mind-cancer that I’m convinced must be caused by even the briefest exposure to those pathologically-moronic gossip magazines with which far too many waiting rooms are infested.

In summary, rather than resisting and railing-against stupormarketing and other such super-time-consuming and super-patience-testing experiences that I’ve been dreading and attempting to exempt myself from all these years, I’ve finally realised I could and should have been seeing them as super-abundant opportunities for super-exercising my mind.

Better late than never, I suppose, as the old saying goes. But even so I can’t help regretting that I so super-stupidly failed to learn such a superior, indeed utterly super-dooper lesson a great deal super-sooner.





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