How the Produce Aisle Became My Therapy Couch

I've learned there's no such thing as a quick trip to the grocery store. You walk in for bread and milk, and 45 minutes later, you've caught up with three old friends, a second cousin, and someone's neighbor who just needed to vent about their clogged sink.

They were there for a mesh stray hair catcher; you met them in the cookie aisle.

In the South, the grocery store is like a town square. It's where gossip is exchanged, advice is given, and unsolicited opinions are as common as buy-one-get-one deals. Who you get these opinions from is half of the adventure.

Absolute strangers will tell you things over the packages of San Antonio chorizo that they wouldn't tell their own therapist. You've never seen them before, and you'll probably never see them again, but now you know that their son-in-law went to jail for meth, and their brother is a crossdresser.

All you wanted was a can of chili. Without beans. How you ended up next to the bacon pondering breakfast tacos is a new level of misdeed, and you may not be responsible for that.

It's the law of the land that every encounter starts with "Hot enough for you?" even if you're both sweating bullets in the frozen food aisle. It takes about fifteen seconds for the fans to start whirring and break up the steady stream of language in your ear.

The fans help induce the Santana mental stream of Oye Como Va that your brain has placed in the internal jukebox. You realize you're missing an account of how Roger Milkin's niece took a dog to prom.

You can learn more about your town standing by the bananas than you ever could at city council meetings. Especially since the Fire Department always seems to have an active presence in shopping for more food.

Those boys put away more chow than a southern preacher in starvation mode.

There's always that one sweet lady who'll lean over and whisper, "Use buttermilk in your cornbread, honey—it's the only way." You knew already that it was the only way. She knew that you knew it was the only way. But somewhere in her single-shooter game version of life, Mabel got extra points for letting you know.

If I've learned anything, it's that no one truly cares how my azaleas are doing, but bless their hearts, they'll ask me every time. I don't own any azaleas. They don't care. They ask anyway, and I lie about it to keep them happy.

If you make eye contact, you're obligated to greet. To do otherwise is borderline treason. Trying to dodge someone mid-aisle is not only rude; it's an invitation for them to follow you to the cereal section and finish their story. This actually happened to me a few months ago.

"Didn't you go to Thomas Jefferson High School?" a complete stranger asked, disheveled and looking like he owed money to the hangover gods.

"I most certainly did not," I answered.

"I thought I recognized you!" He absolutely did not. This man had no less than a decade on me. But he was convinced. "Jimmy, right?"

"Sure."

We traversed the bread and tortilla aisle, the baking aisle, down through the fruit juices, and back to the baking aisle because I was sent with a list, and my wife required chocolate. It was a matter of domestic tranquility that was somewhat interrupted by the sordid tales he shared of his three children's lives from DNA and conception to that very morning.

One was hiding from the police, the second was pregnant, and the youngest liked throwing cats into trash cans for some reason. He suddenly straightened and exclaimed, "I know what I was looking for! Don't go anywhere."

I summoned my inner David Copperfield and made distance like an Olympic athlete. The next ten minutes were a re-enactment of the Bourne Identity as I monitored his exit through the cash registers and out of the store.

The checkout line is the other place where Southerners get their news and therapy. Doctors, lawyers, and plumbers all stand in the same line to buy eggs and bread. It's the great equalizer—especially when there's a BOGO sale on Blue Bell ice cream.

This is where people really let loose. Maybe it's the conveyor belt that inspires them to unload their troubles along with their groceries. The cashier isn't just scanning your items; they're part therapist, part audience, and sometimes part referee when an argument breaks out over the last box of instant grits.

It doesn't matter if you're buying filet mignon or ramen noodles; in the grocery store, we're all just folks trying to feed our families. God help you if you go to the temple of chow without having eaten first. Just go ahead and add fifty bucks to your bill.

We spend so much time texting and emailing that we've forgotten the joy of a good face-to-face chat—even if it's about cucumbers. Just make sure that you think clearly about who you are discussing the cukes with. Some people are mighty strange these days and get the wrong idea. With a simple misstep of an adverb, you could end up discussing strip clubs or Middle Eastern politics. It's really a coin flip either way.

In a world that's getting busier by the minute, the grocery store remains a place where we can slow down and reconnect. It's where you realize your neighbors are more than just people who live next door. They're storytellers, advice-givers, and occasional annoyances—but they're your people. And they all like to eat.

Imagine that.

So the next time someone stops you by the tomatoes to talk about their grandkid's t-ball game, lean in, listen, and maybe even ask a follow-up question. You'll leave with more than just groceries—you'll leave with a story. Whether you choose to remember that story in the event of a court testimony is entirely your choice.

Sometimes, dementia and selective recall may be right for you.

And who knows? Maybe one day, someone will stop you to compliment your azaleas. Just make sure you know what an azalea is before you answer. They don't grow on trees.