Checking Out the Chocolate

I frequent the same grocery store, almost on a daily basis. I know just about everyone, except the teenagers who seem to come and go with a startling frequency just as I become a familiar face.
If I were paranoid I might ask "How is it that they vanish just as I am beginning to know them? OR is Harris Teeter a way station for "wit sec"? Is my folksy charm the last straw that sends them racing off to the closest Starbucks to train as Barristas? I do like to engage them.
One question I'm usually asked as I check out. "Ma'am, would you like to hold on to this? And they display my milk chocolate Dove bar to all and sundry.
"Would I like to hold onto it? Yes. Why do you ask? Are you going to try to take it from me? Do I look like I'm having some sort of chocolate emergency? Or are muggers roving the lot outside ready to snatch my bags and rumage through them looking for sweets?"
Young clerks get flustered as I screw around with them before I dictate that I feel perfectly safe having it tossed in the grocery bag.
After all, I am not an animal. I have self control.
On the way home as I hold the wheel and grope through the back seat for it, I have to wonder if I look like the kind of person with so little discipline I can't make this three-mile drive without swerving on the road as my fingers reach around each bag for that lovely wrapped rectangle of milky chocolate goodness.
I do not eat that chocolate bar on the way home. Not the whole thing for God's sake. Not every time.