Trader Joe’s

Dear Trader Joes,

Lately I find myself lingering leisurely, pushing my wagon up and down your aisles, considering superfluous acquisitions long after my shopping list has been satisfied. I don’t want to leave. It seems the moment I cross over your threshold I’m lighter.

You are like another planet where everyone is kinder for having arrived. The shelf stockers, the checkers, the management, the shoppers. It’s contagious. Even I feel kinder and I’m pretty kind already. That’s my friend Pam in the photo. See how happy she is?

I used to shop at an upscale market, where parking was a breeze and the fish was the freshest. But when it came to milk, eggs, avocados, grapes, cheese, nuts and tuna wraps I ran straight into your arms. Where else can I find Whispering Angel for $18.99 (and I don’t have to buy six bottles to get the discount).

That said, I took a hiatus for a while because the parking lot (at your location closest to my home) is like musical chairs except with cars. Trying to find a spot at a busy hour can be so unpleasant that I need a Xanax when I get home.

There’s no designated path from the lot to your entrance and a few years ago I stepped off of a curb and broke my foot.

I was in denial. I wanted in so badly. I grabbed a wagon anyway, propped myself up on the handle, and pushed off with my good foot, propelling myself around the store. I got everything I needed.

Somehow I managed to drive home, accelerating and breaking ever so gently. I hobbled into my house and told Adam to go up into the attic and get the crutches left over from other mishaps.

Several people told me I should have sued, especially because, well, look at the curb!

But I couldn’t. First of all, how do you sue Trader Joe’s — the happiest place on earth, Disneyland included? And 2, if I were to be totally forthcoming, the few seconds before I stepped off that curb I was hiding behind my phone in order to avoid running into a producer I spotted that I truly did not want to make small talk with. Or Big talk. So I might not have been looking at where I was going.

😳

Six weeks later when I finally was able to drive again I found my way back to you. But the PTSD was real. I couldn’t help stink-eyeing that cracked curb every time I passed it.

But I’m over it, now. I just try to go in the early hours when parking spots are abundant.

I don’t even mind if I forget an item because I’m just going to head back the next day. Because, like I said, you make me so happy. I find excuses to return.

In a country that’s so divided, where road rage is rampant, where politics have cultivated a culture of bullying and me-firsting, you are a respite – an equal opportunity planet full of peace, love and understanding.

In the past, I’ve named my happy places: Sitting at a piano, Holding my guitar, Anywhere I hug my daughter, In my bed at night pulling up the the covers, In my bed in the morning knowing my first sip of coffee is a minute away, Watching the ocean, Watching a sunset, Watching a sunrise.

And now You, Trader Joe’s, have officially been added to that list.

I hope you’re happy. See you soon!

Love, Shelly

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