Exsqueeze Me

…
Mr. Al and I dropped by the grocery store on our way home the other day. Each of us grabbed a basket and loaded up with our own choices. I, for one, won’t buy potato chips. He doesn’t buy raw potatoes. We went through the check out line one after the other, each paying for our purchases out of our own wallets.

So far, this is what we would consider normal. Then, after Mr. Al made his purchases and before I’d paid for mine, Mr. Al reached over and squeezed my loaf of bread.

I didn’t think anything of it. It’s hard to not squeeze a loaf when you’re thinking about eating it. I squeezed the loaf myself when I selected it. The cashier took exception; not because of the squeezing, but because Mr. Al did it to MY loaf.

“Do you realize he’s squeezing your loaf?” The cashier asked.

“Yes,” I said, not looking up from my wallet.

“I’m not kidding. He’s squeezing your loaf.”

At this point I grinned, and wrapped my arms around Mr. Al. He is, after all, my husband. I’m allowed to do that. Even in public. I grinned and said, “He can squeeze my loaf anytime he wants.”

The cashier was an aging gentleman; deep wrinkles and gray sideburns. He couldn’t seem to get over our behavior. While I paid for my selections, Mr. Al scooped up the bags and headed out the door.

“He’s taking them now! Did you know he’s taking them?”

“Oh, good,” I said, waiting for my change.

I never did tell the cashier Mr. Al and I are married.

What would you do? If you’re married, do you always pay for your groceries out of one wallet? Do you never ever shop together? Surely Mr. Al and I can’t be that unique.