"Ok, I need bread, yogurt, turkey, milk, something for breakfast, and a few other things." I was not listening. She said this more for her own benefit than mine. I was just going to follow her around the store until she collected all that she needed, and she knew this.

As we made our way into the bread section, I looked around at the endless rows of different brands and types that we had to choose from. They had wheat, whole wheat, rye, white, pita, sourdough, whole grain, reduced fat and cinnamon bread. She walked with vigilance, as if she knew exactly what she wanted. She picked up a loaf of whole wheat bread and kept walking, oblivious to the profound decision that she had just made and the admiration that I had for her in making such a fast one.

I proceeded to follow her to the breakfast food section, where all of the cereal and pop tarts were neatly lined up in rows along the shelves. I looked at the treats with pure desire in my eyes, knowing that looking was all I would ever do. I remember the days when I could eat these, so laidback and carefree. Those were the days before I had to worry about my calorie consumption or gaining weight. These were also the days before she didn't regulate my eating, to make sure that everything that I ate was whole grain or low fat.

I sighed at the thought of this, and continued on to the health food section.

This is where the Beale family got 75% of their groceries. In a way, I liked it that way. After a lifetime of eating only whole grain and sugar free food, you learn to not like the calorie-infested foods that any other normal person eats.

In the health food section, she ran around like she was on speed, grabbing boxes of protein, fiber, and vegetables. I just sat there, daydreaming of the pop tarts and Rice Krispies that I had drooled over on the way. It was only a dream, and that's all it would ever be as long as I was living with her.

Next, we went to my least favorite part in the store: the refrigerants section. I hated it not because of what it contained, but for what it was. As soon as I caught an innuendo that we were heading for this section, I became vivid and alive. I have heard this section referred to as "the North Pole," but I think that a more appropriate name for it would be "a cold hell."

Immediately after I rolled up to the milk and cheese, a cutting freeze pierced over me. My lips became blue and my fingernails a shade of deep purple. My teeth started striking each other at 40 miles an hour, and my pinkie and ring fingers became numb. This was all a result of the refrigerant section. And this is why I hated it.

But my mom, being the take-20-minutes-at-each-product person that she was, did not take this into consideration, but rather lived up to her name and took 20 minutes just to pick out lunch meat. But, like the loyal kid I was, I stood there with her as she debated between the smoked turkey and the honey roasted turkey.

Honey roasted turkey is what she decided on. But oops! You can't have a turkey sandwich without cheese! American or cheddar? Another 20 minutes goes by. Finally, she grabs a pack of American cheese and sidesteps to the left a few inches, oblivious to the glacial mass parked next to her that she used to call Kristin.

After 40 minutes and only one jar of honey mustard later, she moves along to get yogurt. But, to my misfortune, she sees something else that she wants.

"I need these" she whined as she grabbed a dozen eggs. Once again, I didn't care. I don't think she expected me to either, but instead said it for her own sake. I guess because she felt she needed a reason to justify her purchase of the eggs.

My hopes were high. We were walking towards what I believed to be the last stop before the cash register: the yogurt section. The checkout counter was in sight and it was looking more and more glorious every minute.

As we reached our destination, she paused in front of collection of custards and began to undertake her choosing method. This time, though, she seemed to want some interaction from me.

"What kind do you want?" she said, with a look of pure confusion on her face.

"I only like the 'What'd-ya-get' kind." As I said this, I looked around for it.

The "What'd-ya-gets" were my name for a brand of strawberry with sprinkles. Not just any sprinkles, though. With every container of yogurt, came a new shape/color/flavor of sprinkles. They were delicious, and the only kind that I would eat. She finally found what she wanted, a disgusting peach flavor, after ten minutes of staring and contemplating.

Our cart was full and we were walking towards the register without stopping. Things were looking good. My mood was getting better and better per stride. Along with this, the color in my lips and fingernails was slowly coming back. After what seemed like hours in the grocery store, I was ready to go home. To my delight, we reached the check out and were soon on our way out the door.