This blog is a continuation of my Facebook post from Monday, April 27th. Today's post will only make sense if you read what I shared yesterday. And finally, if you are offended by profanity, you may want to close up this page and carry on with your day.
Ok, so I should probably be as transparent as possible
because I really want to make sure you all can visualize my complete anxiety
during yesterday’s grocery shopping trip. Juan separated from me so we could
make the trip go faster. If you have never been shopping with my husband, I
will take this opportunity to tell you that he will analyze the price of every
item I send him to look for—you can take this as my way of sending him on a wild
goose hunt so I can be alone, or you can believe I am a benevolent woman who
loves to watch her husband engage in the art of grocery shopping…your choice.
By the second aisle I knew that social contracts were being
broken all around me. One going north while the arrow pointed south. Down one
aisle, it looked like two friends used Albertsons as a meeting destination sans
kids and spouses. I could have sworn I saw them pass a flask back and forth.
Yes, friends, this is the stage we have reached in these #RonaTimes where we
have exchanged our local watering hole for grocery stores.
I had one last thing on my list: chocolate baking chips. I
think they were on aisle 3a, but I was on aisle 4b and the arrows were pointing
the opposite direction of the baking section. Did I break protocol? No, your
girl decided to keep going in the direction that management determined would
keep me disease-free during my shopping trip. It gets better from here, I
promise!
In the next aisle I see that an employee is stocking shelves
in the pasta section. He was stocking from a large cart and his body was fully
in the aisle. There was no way around him without being within a foot of his
neck hairs. I patiently stood about 10 feet away waiting for him to finish up.
Two minutes later he completely stopped and asked, “Is everything ok? Do you
need help finding anything?” He had kind eyes. I could tell he was likely in
his late 20s and his mama taught him to be respectful to older women in the
wild who had lost their wits. I took a deep breath before responding, because I
needed to remind myself that it was not his fault that I was losing my marbles
over arrows and chocolate baking chips. It also wasn’t his fault for what was
about to come out of my mouth.
“Nothing is ok. Can you just please tell me how to get to
the chocolate baking chips from here?” I spit out, all in one breath. I felt
accomplished. The outside corners of his eyes began to lift, and if it wasn’t
for the mask across his mouth and nose, I bet his smile would have been a
contender for a Colgate commercial. He said, “Yeah, ok, it’s in the next aisle
over, right over there,” and pointed to the aisle on his left. “Ok, and do you
need me to wait until you are done here for me to walk by you?” I asked him,
hoping he wasn’t going to make me wait.
“Nah, man, you don’t need to wait. You can just go get those
chocolate chips,” was his reply.
We became kin with that one sentence. He said,
“Nah, man” in the same way my little brother does, so my social inhibitions
completely left the building and I responded, “Thank you, man, and fuck your
arrows” as I walked by him. He doubled over in laughter and replied, “Yeah,
fuck those arrows!” just in the nick of time to catch another Albertsons
employee passing by. This one was wearing a safety vest and asked me if
everything was ok. I said, “Yeah, fuck your arrows. Everything is going to be
ok.” To which he replied, “Yeah, fuck the arrows!” I imagined that scene in Les
Mis when ‘Do You Hear the People Sing’ comes on and instead of opposing armies waving
flags, every shopper emerges from the aisles with their “Fuck your arrows” flag
flowing in the air. I digress…
I kept on walking until I found the chocolate baking chips
and Juan all in one aisle—It was like lightning striking twice in the same
spot, because (back to the topic of grocery shopping with Juan) he always
manages to lose himself in the aisles and I have to pry him back to the real
world when it is time to leave. I quickly explain my emotional outburst and why
we needed to get back home as quickly as possible. He knew the exit route as
though he had created it himself, so I willingly followed him through the rest
of the store following the directional arrows.
When we get to the cash
register, I was pleased to see my favorite cashier was going to ring me up. “Act
right, Lorena. Don’t talk about the fucking arrows to this child who is working
the frontlines of the grocery industry,” was my inner monologue. All I wanted
was to smile dutifully, ask her how she was doing, and get my Monopoly pieces
at the end of my transaction.
When I was done paying and she handed me my receipt, I must
have had a worried look on my face because she asked me if everything was
alright. “Don’t break. Don’t break!” I told myself as I squeezed out, “Oh yes,
can I get my monopoly pieces?”
She
Did
Not
Disappoint
The highlight of my trip was watching her give absolutely no
fucks when using her two hands to grab my Monopoly pieces. And that, my
friends, is the whole story on the whole arrows that threw my whole day off. Cheers!
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