The best time to shop at Central Market is on a sleepy Sunday morning when everyone else in Fort Worth is at church. Especially when your kids are at the onsite playground with your wife. You can stroll leisurely, taking your time with the produce. No waiting in line for the scales, or feeling rushed to pick the best apples, or having other people’s carts run into yours, or anything at all but quiet bliss.

But then you’re in the wine department picking out big, kick-you-in-the-face reds, when you remember that the only time you can’t buy wine is on a sleepy Sunday morning when everyone else in Fort Worth is at church. And as you return the bottles to their shelves, you grumble to yourself about yet another way that the Texas legislature has failed you.

Then you hear rapid footfalls that can only portend one thing: your children have grown tired of the playground and are descending upon you. And suddenly your pleasant reprieve has become yet another in a series of drills on chaos management. And no, we can’t have this. And yes, some of that, but not six boxes for God’s sake. And if you will just stop running around, yes, you can probably have one root beer when we’re done.

And you had already obtained the fruit tray that your wife had requested – which is to be presented to your hosts later today when you arrive for a pool party. But suddenly she and the kids appear with a cheesecake designated for the same purpose. Really? Who shows up anywhere with a cheesecake? And even if they did, we have fruit. Who takes both fruit AND cheesecake to a pool party? That’s just weird and overkill. Besides, this is Central Market, so they want a gillion dollars for the cheesecake. This sort of impulse purchase cannot be countenanced. But your wife is oblivious to how utterly improper this is. And she wants it anyway, damnit!

And as you sputter to explain, you begin to wonder if maybe your objection is not rooted in proper etiquette, or rationality, or frugality. Maybe your objection is really part of some childhood programming you received from your parents. Like how you can’t see a fridge door open for more than three seconds without freaking out about letting the cold air escape – because your mother barked at you about this same thing. Or how egg yoke must be rinsed from a used breakfast plate immediately before it’s allowed to harden – again, your mother. Or how your best knives must be washed by hand and never put in the dishwasher, or how you’re supposed to “clean as you go” while cooking, or any of dozens of other idiosyncrasies that are branded on your brain.

And you’re irritated at the notion that your preference could be arbitrary. That maybe you’re not “right” about this, because being “right” is what you’re good at. And as you’re pushing the cart and piecing these thoughts together, you hear your wife telling your kids behind you no, we don’t drink sodas. And no, surely Daddy didn’t say you could have a root beer. And she asks you, but for reasons that escape you, or maybe out of I-don’t-want-to-buy-the-goddamn-cheesecake spite, you stupidly pretend not to hear her. So she asks you again, more loudly. And you stop the cart and say “Yes! Yes! I told them they could have one root beer!” And the sushi guy looks up at you, and the gelato lady, and the folks behind the prepared foods counter. And your wife mutters “okay, let’s make a scene in the grocery store.”

And she takes the kids to the car (after they’ve selected their root beers), and you checkout and sack the groceries. And poetically, the conveyor belt delivers the cheesecake to you last. And you cram it in a bag and huff your way out to the parking lot.

And as you walk, you remember a conversation you had with her last night. Two fictional characters from a show you were watching suggested that the fact they never fight was a bad sign for their relationship. And aware of the silliness of pop culture psychology, you had nevertheless asked her if she thought the fact that you rarely fight was a bad sign for your relationship. And she had laughed at you (as she frequently does), and refrained from answering (as she frequently does). And in spite of yourself, you chuckle. And you load the groceries with her help. And as you climb into the car, she is grinning, and she says “Guess what? We just had a fight. So that’s good news, right?”

And you smile, and make the conscious decision to let this go. And you’ll apparently be taking fruit and cheesecake to this party. And you go home, and unload the groceries. And then you’re getting ready to leave, and she says now that it’s past noon, she wants to stop and grab some beer to take. What?! Now we’re taking fruit and cheesecake AND beer?! Why don’t we just load all the dry goods from our pantry into the car too?! And maybe they could use some toothpaste and cat litter and batteries while we’re at it!

And as you grind your teeth in the car on the way to pick up the beer, you have no concerns about your relationship.