Some grocery aisles are so narrow that a cart parked sideways turns breakfast cereal into a border crossing. Add a shopper standing on the opposite shelf, and suddenly the rest of us need a passport, a polite throat-clear, and the balance of a circus performer.
No one is asking for military precision. Compare ingredients, study the pasta sauce, receive the extremely urgent call about Uncle Greg’s new grill. Just leave a sliver of civilization for traffic. Cart parallel to the shelf; body tucked in when possible; conversations moved to the wide intersection where nobody has to audition for “Mission: Impastable.”
The best part of this grievance is its tiny scale and gigantic emotional impact. We all become philosophers beside the canned beans: Do I say “excuse me,” wait, retreat, or attempt the forbidden cart shimmy? What is your least awkward aisle-blocker escape plan?