Sinners beware: Hell has relocated, and it’s much closer than
you’d think. What once was a land of nine concentric circles ending
in a frozen lake now consists of 15 parallel aisles ending in
frozen foods. Although Dante saw his Inferno in a vision, I
witnessed the reality at a local supermarket.

I love my Jesuit education as much as the next guy, but any high
school boasting “college prep” status deserves a lawsuit for false
advertising. Sure, I read some great literature, performed some
nifty science experiments and cheated my way through mathematics
(thanks to my graphing calculator). However, college life involves
a lot more than just academics.

No one taught me how to operate a beer bong, execute a keg stand
or lie to the babes about what fabulous things I have done in my
life. Luckily, we have freshman year to learn those valuable skills
for ourselves. But I am no longer a freshman, I am a senior, and a
very poorly prepared one at that.

Before last week, my only shopping experience involved throwing
a bag of beef jerky on the checkout counter so Daddy would buy me a
snack on the way home. Yeah, I’m spoiled, and my parents will be
the first to confirm it.

Imagine my horror as I sauntered into Wal-Mart armed with
nothing but a shopping cart and a cell phone. Nothing in my
formative years prepared me for this situation. I could write a
solid research paper, but I couldn’t cook my own dinner. Manhood be
damned, I called my mother within five minutes to ask, “What do I
like to eat?”

My first rookie mistake occurred in the spice aisle while
perusing the olive oils. Apparently, you can’t just buy “olive
oil.” It’s separated into such arcane categories as “virgin” and
“extra virgin,” each of which becomes increasingly expensive.
Thinking aloud, I inquired where they kept the olive oil that had
been around the block a few times. The elderly woman behind me was
not amused.

Minor victories were obtained in the pasta aisle. Bounties of
generic shells, elbows and noodles can be had for pennies on the
dollar. Top those suckers off with Great Value Four-Cheese sauce,
and I’ve got a meal the average crackhead might consume after his
fourth rock of the evening. Unfortunately, I later realized that I
have no clue how to cook said pasta. Evidently it requires some
water, a pot and stove, but after staring at my sink, stove and pot
for half an hour, I just couldn’t pull it together.

Fresh from my then-success in pasta, I proceeded to personal
hygiene. Since I’m a guy who limits my carbs, I figured I was
pretty safe from yeast infections, so I snagged shampoo and
toothpaste instead.

I should have left that godforsaken aisle then, but I didn’t.
The condom rack had transfixed me with its promises of “heating
sensations guaranteed to rock her world.”

Although I was more than willing to save a few bucks on generic
products elsewhere, this particular item seemed to merit the
established quality of a name brand. To my total embarrassment, a
female classmate walked by and caught me in the decision process. I
wasn’t sure which was worse–buying Trojans or not buying
Magnums.

Why didn’t I just opt for a quick trip to the beer aisle and
grab a feedbag of Cheetos on my way out? Granted, this diet would
increase my bust size to Pamela Anderson proportions by Christmas
break, but washboard abs are overrated anyway.

My first shopping experience was an exercise in humiliation, but
it provided a revelation nonetheless–I need to appreciate the
women in my life. Feminism may discourage cooking meals for guys,
but chauvinism applauds hunting and gathering. Clearly, I can’t
perform either, which leaves my future wife the opportunity to
become Wonder Woman around the house. I’m doing her a favor, I
swear.

In the last week, I’ve managed to cook cereal and anything that
fits in a microwave or on a George Foreman grill. At this rate, I
will probably appear on Sally Struthers’s next infomercial asking
you to feed the hungry. So the next time you’re up late, look for
me. I’ll be the lone, emaciated white guy waving an arid box of
pasta in one hand and an equally dusty box of condoms in the
other.