If a person doesn't time it right they might get only as far as the bread aisles before falling on the wrong side of their impulses that usually follows an interlude resulting from something like a shopping-cart logjam. Then if that person retains an ounce of curiosity he or she will find themselves staring at thousands of cellophane wrapped loaves of bread wondering at the difference between white "Milk Wheat Bread" and white "Sandwich Loaf Wheat Bread." From what you can see of them through the ubiquity of packaging, they both look exactly the same. Everyone's different, I suppose, but if you happen to be something like a writer of pulp whose hero is often fed Beetroot Sandwiches for reasons related to plot, this sort of confusion isn't a good start to the Grocery Store experience. Not to mention the many, many thousands in our world who go to bed hungry and wouldn't give a damn whether it was Whole Wheat, Whitened Wheat, Pink Wheat or Sawdust Enhanced Cat Food ten days beyond the sell-by date.
Wrong timing is a grave error in almost any circumstance, and by the time you
reach the meat products and collected body parts, trussed dog or whatever, a
whole set of emotions have been set in play and you know very well that your
super special shopping card that entitles you to an extra special percentage
reduction on the cost of something like half a Orangutan is burning a great big
hole in your pocket. Nor does a ten ton male on one of those battery operated
shopping cart chairs staring at pork chops really enhance an attitude that
supposes Ice Cream comes from the milk of cows who end up in a comfortable well
appointed retirement field where they can yarn on about the old days when Milk
Maids had warm fingers and Cats were given sticks of butter to cheer them up.
None of this really helps the more sensitive shopper who might have risked
hyperthermia while scraping ice off a windshield to spend good money on a couple
of pints of Vanilla Ice Cream with which to celebrate eight years of writing