Oops, sorry. My grocery cart – the push-along container for food that old guys use as a walker – was blocking the way. They should have traffic rules and lanes in here!

Can’t you move? says the white-haired lady, sixtyish, rushing. She gives me the evil eye.

I smile. Sure, sorry.

Wham, I hit a guy on my left trying to figure out whether to buy “original” or “light” yogurt. What’s the difference? Just throw both in your cart!

Watch it buddy. He drops the yogurt, which makes a mess on the floor. He scoots away. So do I. So does the sixtyish lady with white hair.

I see an attendant heading my way with a mop. He looks exasperated, but smiles at me, says, no problem.

A family with an infant in the cart and 3 kids shooting spitballs at each other are barreling down, about to skid on the yogurt.

I go back to the deli section to see how my wife is doing with the cold cuts. She had tag #37 for service, and the line was up to #23 when I left with her list of stuff to get. “Sweet” was written in big letters next to “Pickles.” I prefer the sour ones. Doesn’t matter. I couldn’t find either. So I bought peanut butter.

I’ll take ¾ of a pound of the boar turkey, please. I recognize my wife’s voice. #37 is being served.

Bam. Another grocery cart fender bender to my left. Neither party bothers to check out the damage.

They go from 9 to 35 for me, says the pot-bellied old man in front of me, at least in his eighties. He has a kind face and looks resigned.

Mine go from 5 to 22, responds the lady. She looks 5 to 10 years younger, but she’s no spring chicken. Her grocery cart is overloaded with containers of every size imaginable.

The man pushes his cart away searching for something on the shelves.

Mine range from 9 to 16. I feel like a kid. I’m only 75.

Grandkids. They’ll be here tomorrow.

We don’t need peanut butter, says my wife looking at what I put in the cart, clutching the wrapped, sliced turkey breast.

Never mind. She might be wrong.

I go in search of carrots, while she veers to the right in pursuit of oatmeal and eggs.

I pass a man holding a box of something. I don’t know which brand she wants, he tells the air. No, he’s talking to a young girl, maybe 8. He looks like a youngish grandfather, or an oldish father.

The girl looks professional. Kellogs, she says. Also, the bigger box. He throws the big box of Kellogs into the cart. She marches ahead, scouting, preparing, knowing how indispensable she is.

Go wait in line to pay, my wife instructs me. I’m going to get toilet paper and will be right there.

I empty the contents of my cart between rubber dividers on the conveyer belt. The cashier is working quickly to keep the line moving. She has on a dress with sparkles and a Santa Claus hat. Where’s my wife?

My last two items get recorded with the magic barcode-reader. Still no wife. Yes, there she is! She throws a bunch of lovely toilet paper onto the conveyer belt. The cashier doesn’t miss a stride.

Slide your credit card, sir, she says.

Ahaa!! Who does she think she’s dealing with? I already did that. I know what I’m doing. I don’t need an 8-year-old daughter/granddaughter, whatever. I’m experienced.

Do you have a discount card? asks the cashier.

I turn to my wife. Do we? I have no idea. Where’s that 8-year-old?

Not for here, she answers.

No, I tell the cashier authoritatively.

We wheel the groceries to the car. Two old, slightly bent, overweight people – a man and a woman – pushing separate carts are in front of me, talking gently.

When the kids and grandkids leave, then, he says.

Okay.

I’ll call you.

It’s the delicatessen duo. A match made in Publix. It’s never too late. But I’m pessimistic about the outcome. She had her groceries in paper bags; he had them in plastic.

We get to the rented Ford and I struggle to figure out how to open the trunk. None of the buttons work. I try again and succeed. Electronics!

The 9 and almost-12-year old come tomorrow. The 10, 13 and 16-year-old arrive the day after.

We’ll have plenty to eat.

Merry Christmas!