The Coffee Table

Mental Mapping Malfunction

I pushed my cart through Walmart’s produce and dairy sections (where I do most of my shopping), then proceeded to the check-out. I was lost. The entire checkout section had been remodeled. Big glowing green lights on poles called out, “Here! Come here! Try me!”  

But investigation revealed these to be self-checkout counters. I avoid self-checkout. Afraid I’ll need help—and don’t want to obliterate someone’s job. So I imagined blinders thrusting forward from my temples and proceeded to the darker checkout counters.  

These, too, had been remodeled. (When did they do this?  I come in here twice a week, minimum, and there was no sign of this on my last visit!) They were smaller, and staggered, and I couldn’t understand where lines were meant to form. 

I pulled up behind a very full cart guessing it was in line. While I waited, I watched a young girl in front of me stuff an unopened sack of M&Ms into her mouth and pull it back out. Turned out her parental unit was not going to buy it. She put it back on the display. No skin off my nose. I don’t eat candy. But then I grasped the real wisdom of washing my fruit and vegetables.

I returned to Walmart a few days later. Couldn’t find the dog food. Now, admittedly, I have a disability when it comes to visualizing a physical space. I can follow directions to get from A to B but can’t reverse those directions for the return trip. But I knew where the dog food was—and it was gone. In fact, nothing was there but empty shelves. Were they out of dog food? I asked for help. (Good thing it was me and not my late husband, Kirk. Trite as it sounds, he’d never ask for directions.) 

Since then, I’ve successfully purchased pet food on two occasions. But today I needed saddle soap and office supplies. I found the new shoe department and looked for saddle soap—to no avail. I asked for directions. The very friendly gentleman in the Walmart vest hadn’t a clue either—but held a mini-computer in his hand that gave us the answer. He walked me directly to the display.   

Then I made a beeline to the office supplies—except they weren’t there. And my friendly guy in the vest wasn’t there either. I gave myself a pep talk: “How hard can this be? You can do this!”  I channeled my inner Kirk and eventually found office stuff.  

But this is stressful! I feel acutely learning disabled. Or memory deficient. My mother suffered from Alzheimer’s and it scares me that I’ll follow in her footsteps. I’m careful about diet and  exercise—both physical and mental. But the remodeling of Walmart makes me feel like I’ve lost the battle.

Walmart often moves items I buy regularly, forcing me to find their new location. I suppose it’s meant to make me traverse aisles I don’t frequent, so I’ll, theoretically, pad my cart with impulse buys. But that isn’t the effect it has on me. It makes me want to quit shopping. (I sympathize with the learning disabled students I taught, when they struggled to read or solve math problems and wanted to quit school.) And now they’re moving everything. My brain needs to generate a whole new mental map of Walmart.

I generally stay upbeat in the store. I smile at everybody. I apologize if I inadvertently get in somebody’s way. I’m patient in a long line. But I can’t take it! Will somebody please tell Walmart to stop rearranging things?