The Unmovable Cart and the Wellness Journey

Sarah, fueled by a podcast about gut health and a shaky resolve, marched into the supermarket. Her mission: organic steel-cut oats. Her nemesis: a shopping cart, abandoned directly in front of the sole bag of said oats, laden with enough artisanal cheeses and exotic kombuchas to host a very small, very pretentious, and potentially gassy, brunch. It wasn't just blocking; it was *mocking* her healthy aspirations.

She tried a gentle nudge. It felt less like moving a cart and more like attempting to shift a small, immovable mountain of existential dread. The owner was nowhere in sight, likely off discovering a new varietal of micro-greens. Sarah, a woman who once apologized to a lamppost for bumping into it, felt a dark, primal urge to *relocate* this inanimate object.

With a grunt that was decidedly un-zen, she braced herself, dug her heels in, and heaved. The cart, seemingly glued to the linoleum, barely shuddered. Just then, a tiny, elderly woman, sporting a fuchsia tracksuit and a look of steely determination, glided past. With a flick of her wrist so casual it bordered on contempt, she nudged the offending cart a full foot to the left, plucked a bag of quinoa from the top shelf, and then, with a twinkle in her eye, whispered, "Amateur," before vanishing around the corner. Sarah, defeated, oat-less, and suddenly craving a very large, non-organic doughnut, decided her wellness journey could probably start next Tuesday. After she'd enrolled in a shopping cart combat class.