We have an ongoing dispute in our home regarding who should be responsible for weekend errands. Those with Y chromosomes in the under-65 inches category believe it should be my job, so as not to interfere with their preference for spending large swaths of time floating from couch, to bed, to dining table on any days that start with ‘S’.
Saturday, being an ‘S’ day, and coinciding with the continuous fact that we seemed to be out of a multitude of essentials, I determined that I would attend to my lengthy list of errands alone, without having to endure complaints about the number of places I choose to visit, or the length of time I choose to spend in aforementioned places.
But then the professor offered to join me at the last minute; a token of semi-goodwill, ostensibly. Though it may have been offered with the distinct hope of being rebuffed. Instead he found himself sitting in the passenger seat of the van, barreling down ice-rutted roads while inhaling through bared teeth, muttering things like ‘I’m going to die.’ Headed for the bane of all Johnson-men’s existence: Community Natural.
It being St. Patrick’s Day, a cheerful store employee was offering samples of undoubtedly health-ified ‘Shamrock Shakes’ in compostable mini-cups. I grabbed one knowing full well it would not bear much of a resemblance to its thick green chemical-cousin from the Golden Arches. But I was not entirely prepared for a green juice anointed with mint oil and cocoa nibs, and a drop of almond milk. The professor made various sputtering, unhappy noises and hightailed it to the nearest garbage collector.
‘Do you notice no one is smiling in this place,’ he mused aloud. ‘This is my impression of everyone in this place,’ and he generated a facial expression akin to one who has drunk nothing but parsley juice for three days straight. ‘It’s a grocery store,’ I disagreed, ‘no one looks happy at the grocery store.’
I parked myself in front of the bulk bins to gather oats and lentils while he wandered off, like an unsupervised school child heading for mischief. In the form of a Cole & Mason fresh herb keeper.
‘Don’t you think we need one of these?’ he reappeared, cradling a box in his arms as though he’d located the cure for something. ‘No.’ ‘But I just threw away some sort of green – cilantro, parsley – that was trapped in the salad spinner for like three days.’ ‘You could have thrown it in the freezer [with the constantly expanding collection of chicken carcasses destined for broth.]’
Denied, he returned his prized would-be possession and joined me at the bulk bins. ‘Don’t you ever just want to push down all the dispensers and run out?’ ‘No.’ ‘But let’s say you were diagnosed with a terminal illness, would you do it then?’ ‘No.’ ‘Well, I’m just saying if a doctor tells me I have a month to live or whatever, I am definitely doing that; I have a whole list of things I’d do.’
I frowned, mildly horrified at the prospect of certain public humiliation in my future. ‘Don’t worry,’ he assured me, ‘I will rent a car.’
I hurried away to the produce section, eager to expedite….whatever this was. He found me in front of the kale, contemplating whether to buy curly or lacinato. Or both. ‘Why not just put a toonie in the refrigerator instead,’ he proposed with a hint of judgment at my habit of letting vegetables languish. I crammed one of each into a plastic bag, made a mental note to EAT KALE and continued on to look for baking soda. While regaled with tales of a recent podcast about a mental institution and the merits of animal fats over vegetable fats.
‘Do you think I could pass for 65,’ the professor asked, pointing to the sign posted near the cash register about people over 65 being eligible for a wisdom discount. ‘Go for it,’ I encouraged, while silently berating myself for choosing the slowest line. I glanced at the couple standing behind us, dressed in the requisite ‘Community Shopper’ uniform sported by people of a certain age and political bent: olive green hiking pants, fleece vest and water-resistant boots. They also bore the requisite ‘parsley juice’ expression on their faces. Possibly due to the fact that they’ve eaten nothing but apples and hemp seeds for the last fifteen years, judging from their shopping basket.
‘How’s your day going,’ the cashier asked when it was finally my turn to check out. ‘Well, I’m shopping with my husband,’ I motioned with my head, to the man who had wandered off to check out the juicers on display. ‘Ah,’ she said, in a say-no-more manner. ‘He was wondering if he could pass for 65, so he could get the wisdom discount,’ she looked at him and shook her head. Dream deferred.