I would have made a terrible archaeologist.
Finding things are fun for me. Looking for them is not.
Take a purse, which the missus asks me to peruse from time to time.
I would rather rummage through trash than a handbag. Lipstick, chewing gum, keys, pens, moisturizer, checkbook, nail clippers. The contents are like quicksand, oozing to the bottom once scooped to the top.
A grocery store is more organized but, because of its size, less finder-friendly.
It’s difficult locating anything plain nowadays. I like Jimmy Dean sausage, the regular kind.
But instead of whipping by the meat case and picking up a roll, I have to read the fine print, making sure it isn’t the maple, sage, Italian or extra hot.
The other day I counted 12 varieties of my beloved Oreos, including Double Stuf and Triple Double. Are these cookies or basketball highlights?
And at some point every man has played 20 questions in the feminine hygiene section, cell phone pressed to ear, making sure he gets the right kind of you-know-what.
“They’re the ones in the blue box.”
“The Barely There?
“No, the heavy flow.”
“The blue box, right?
“They should be in a pink box. And one more thing. Make sure they have wings.”