While
strolling through the aisles of my local healthy grocery store the other day (I
won’t tell you which one, but it rhymes with ‘Mole Lewds’), a woman accidentally
pushed her overflowing cart into mine.
“I’m so
sorry,” she chirped. “I can hardly push
this thing. I’ve got a very large family
to feed.”
“No worries,”
I responded, and then proceeded to scan the cat food shelf in vain, searching
for Newman’s Own Organic Dry Mix. It’s a
tad pricey, but The Two Spoiled Cats won’t touch anything else these days. I was out of town for a month over the
summer, and Mr. Newman allowed them many indulgences, including expensive
nibbles.
“How about
you?” she asked a little too
enthusiastically for my taste.
“I beg your pardon?” Honestly, I thought she’d wheeled by already.
“Do you have
a very large family to feed?”
Glancing in
my cart, I felt its contents should have answered her question: three bottles of wine, olives, a box of
Frownies, and an all-natural supplement that promises to ward off the symptoms
of pre-menopause. Just because my body’s
getting older, doesn’t mean my face has to show it. If it does, the wine will surely make me feel
a whole lot better about things.
Lord, give me strength.
“I’ve got
two,” I replied.
“We had
one. She died several years ago at the
ripe old age of eleven.”
One-upmanship
is not my style, but anyone who’s ever had a cat knows that the house variety
can live up to 14, 15, 16 years or more.
“I lost my Kramer
last year. He was twenty.”
“Oh,my God!” she exclaimed. “How did he die?”
“He was
murdered,” I whispered, then proceeded toward the produce section.
I was
thumping cantaloupes when I heard her voice again. I had no intention of buying cantaloupes;
it’s just something I enjoy doing from time to time. She parked her cart next to the kale,
regaling an elderly gentleman with stories of her very large family and what
they like to eat.
“Seven kids –
can you beat that?” she cried. “Four are
Bob’s from his first marriage and three are mine from my first and second
marriages.”
“Well, you
are blessed indeed,” the man responded, trying to maneuver around her.
“With such a
large family, I can hardly stay on top of all this grocery shopping,” she
continued – a little too loudly, if you ask me.
I decided to make a run for it before she found me again, but then I
remembered I needed one more item before leaving.
I heaved a
heavy sigh at the sight of the ridiculously long check-out lines. Remind me, dear reader, to never go grocery
shopping on a Saturday. Luckily, I had
just the right amount in my cart to give me license to drop into the express lane.
“Hi, again!”
I turned, and there she stood, grinning like a mad woman, items literally
falling out of her cart from the heap she’d created. I offered back a salutation, and then she
asked if I’d mind if she cut in front of me.
Before I could answer, she explained that she was running behind
schedule, and she feared the wrath of her very large family if dinner wasn’t on
the table by a certain time. Luckily,
the hip and happening young man working the register piped in, informing her
that this was strictly express, and she would have to go to another line. Dejected, she did just that.
Bags in
hand, I stopped short of the door in order to retrieve my keys. I overheard her explaining to the cashier
that yes, that coupon should work in this store, and the reason why she needs
twelve packages of cold cuts is because she has a very large family to feed.
On the drive
home, I couldn’t help but feel sorry for her.
She’s obviously missing something in her life that compels her to share
her story with strangers. The conspiracy
theorist in me, however, chooses to cook up another scenario: perhaps she’s all alone, and this ‘very large
family’ story is merely a ruse to hide a food addiction. Then I felt bad because I didn’t make more of
an effort toward friendliness. I should
have more patience with people of the bubbly, talkative variety. I should find the filter I use to have before
popping off and leaving others to assume my cat died under suspicious
circumstances. I should take people for
what they claim to be, rather than whiling away the hours creating little soap
operas for them inside my head.
But if I
start doing that, what would I have to write about?
