June 11, 2005
Iam at the local grocery store when Jason, 17, is called over the loud speaker to sack groceries.
I know they are calling him just for me. Jason is 6’4”, imposing fellow.
I wish they hadn’t called him. Does he ask me “paper or plastic”?
No, he looks over his glasses, which are far too small for his large body, and firmly says, “Paper today!”
No hint of a question.
No room for choice.
Just tells me to choose paper.
In a millisecond, I think I really want plastic because it is easy to carry.
Yet, I reason that I could use the paper because I need some paper sacks to carry newspapers to the recycling center.
Everyone knows plastic doesn’t biodegrade.
Jason stares.
I have not answered.
Intimidated, I reply, “Paper, yes, that would be great.”
I am too afraid or embarrassed to say “Plastic.”
I move on with my stop-and-go errands.
First of all, I hate going from place to place these days, and I must admit the reason used to be boredom; now it is, frankly, aging.
Silent scream!
Start the car, always buckle the seatbelt even though the arthritis in my left hand is killing me, can’t make the left-hand turn into oncoming traffic, decide to back up and go through the shopping center parking lot to find an easier way out.
Ya Da Ya Da Ya Da.
Finally in traffic, I decide I need a break and a coffee.
Ordering used to terrify me at this world-renowned coffee store or any coffee shop for that matter.
Now, I have my own card.
Just one swipe and I can add money; order a lemon bar and a tall, leave-room-for-skim, exotic African coffee.
On a hot day, I will daringly order a grande caramel frappechino with whipped cream and a third shot of Espresso.
On a cold day I can now order a venti caramel macchiato with the best of them.
My friend Beth cannot, but she’s getting the hang of it.
My ordering skills surely impress nearby teenagers who were previously thinking I might be seriously “cool” challenged.
Such a checkout I can handle.
Advice to all novices-- you must order extremely fast and speak your menu choice with conviction and rattle on as though you are fluent in the coffee shop language.
Next -- tackling the big guy of shopping, “the great who-ha”, the discount store.
Is it just I, or does it bother you, too, to be greeted by these bubbly, cheerful seniors?
What is worse is with each passing day, I am one of them.
They work hard at second careers in retirement years, I understand, but they still send shivers down my spine.
I do not want cheerful right now, and another thing, I do not want to be one of them. Is this my future?
I just got inside the door, and I am already in trouble.
Can’t get the carts apart.
Someone has to help.
A sweet 81-year-old greeter comes over and easily separates them.
I swear I cannot.
It is the arthritis in my wrist, you understand.
Miffed and baffled, I wonder, “How did she do that?” Is it possible she does not have “Arthur” and I do?
Anyway, on with the shopping.
No problem with this.
I can find most everything, but it is time to check out once again.
Now this is tough.
Looming before me are choices…12 items or less, 20 items or less, regular checkout where there are no visible checkers anywhere around, and long lines at checkout 13.
I could try the service counter, but that only works in small discount stores. Counting my items hurriedly, I decide I can make a run at the 12 or less counter.
I hope the checker does not realize I have 15 items.
He doesn’t and I make it fine.
Swipe the debit card and expertly get cash back.
Cool, indeed.
Wish those teenagers could see me now.
Make it to my car and almost into traffic when I realize I left one sack behind. They have that spinning thing with the sacks hanging from a rack. It always hides one on the backside.
Ok, so that checkout wasn’t exactly a success.
With my last sack back in tow, I finally head home, now far too tired to make dinner.
Designed for our convenience, fast food establishments abound. Naturally, it is so easy to detour through the sub shop, and tell myself that has got to be good enough.
One more checkout, pay for the sandwiches and I am “home free.”
“That will be $17.53 please.”
Sigh.
I swipe my Starbucks card; pull out leaving the girl at the sub shop drive-through holding my sack of food, and move carefully into traffic.
Now, I am muttering out loud, sounding frighteningly like George on Seinfeld. Really, I promise, I could do this once, and I didn’t used to mutter either.
