The Pothole

 

This satellite photo does not properly reproduce depth

Mary entrusted me with the task of going to Wegmans Market for elements essential for dinner.  There were enough items to necessitate a half-size cart. 

Shopping complete after surviving the usual “Stranger in a Strange Land” emotional trauma resulting from negotiating a grocery store, I pushed the cart swiftly over the macadam toward the car, which rested peacefully where it had been parked beyond the crowd.

The cart stopped abruptly when the right front wheel descended into an unseen pothole. Had our progress been only a tad more rapid, my head would have gone over the handlebar and into concussion protocol.  Instead, I was able to sidestep the cart and even manage to avoid crushing any of the groceries that spread out across the parking lot.  As another distractible-yet-athletic klutz once said regarding his own misadventures, “A lesser man would have been killed!”

Two young women nearby rushed to my aid.  “Are you OK?” asked one as they helped me rebag the pudding, berries and celery, among other items.

“You’ve done this before,” I replied, impressed at the rapid manner in which my groceries were reassembled.

“We work here,” said the second, smiling.  “Is there anything else we can do?”

“You can tell management to fix the pothole.  Thanks for your help.”

I made it to the car without further mishap.  The bruises on my ego had already begun to heal.  As I stepped on the gas and made my escape, I realized just how lucky I had been.  The upended cart had been uncharacteristically devoid of bottled beer!