Breaking the Rules
I am pushing a shopping cart up and down the aisles of the local grocery store, selecting dinner materials. Suddenly I find myself *parked* in front of the cold beer and wine section.
"No, Secra! You can't buy beer!" says the Good Angel on my right shoulder. "It'll mess up your year and a half of sobriety, and you'll have to start all over again!"
"Oh why not?" says the Bad Angel on my left shoulder. "You've had a shitty week. You deserve a little relaxation. And if you're careful, nobody will ever know. Just hide a couple of beers under the Freschetta boxes, and then drink them in the bathroom before David gets home."
In spite of everything I've learned the past eighteen months ... in spite of all the progress I've made ... the temptation is too strong. The Bad Angel wins. I tuck a six-pack of Saxer's Lemon Lager at the bottom of the shopping cart, underneath the frozen pizza and the mega-pack of Charmin Ultra Unscented, and I head for the check-out counter.
At that precise moment, Keith Richards reaches into my shopping cart and snatches my purse. (It's either Keith Richards or the Troll King from "The 10th Kingdom.") I yell "Whut the fudk?!" and grab the handle of my purse, yanking on it with all of my strength. I'm not about to part with seventeen dollars and a new box of Penguin Caffeinated Peppermints that easily. For a minute or two, Keith Richards and I engage in a furious tug-of-war, but finally he loses his grip and lets go, and I reclaim my purse, and he disappears.
The commotion, however, has drawn the attention of my mother, who just happens to be shopping nearby in the produce section. (Yes. That's right. My mom commutes from TicTac to California to buy her acorn squash. You got a problem with that?) Mom glances at my shopping cart, and a funny look crosses her face. I follow her gaze and realize -- to my horror -- that one of the Saxer's bottles has rolled out from underneath the *real* groceries, and is clearly visible.
"That's not MY shopping cart!" I lie, and she gives me a look that clearly says ''Terri Lynn, I did not exactly fall off the Freschetta truck this morning.'
I break down. "OK," I admit, feeling sick and ashamed and stupid. "You've got me. I was going to buy beer." And I begin pulling the bottles out of my shopping cart and replacing them on the grocery store shelf, while my mother and everybody else in the store watches.