The woman in the organic produce section stuck out like a sore prima donna. She was wearing huge sunglasses, as if she were impersonating a bee, with her thick hair ballooned up in a big, loose bun on top of her head. She had on shiny tights (Exercise? Fashion? Superhero?) and some black boots that looked like they belonged at an after-party with Eminem. Any one of those items individually would have announced to the world of Wegman’s, “I have style!” But all together they suggested she needed an intervention.
As I was looking for a check-out line that wasn’t three shoppers deep, I caught her again, wheeling her child, organic mushrooms and paper towels over to the Express lane. I glanced at my own cart and kept going. I sometimes make jokes to the cashiers or the person behind me if I notice them staring at what I’m buying.
“No, I don’t have a pet Killer Whale at home.”
I started thinking about crazy ballerina and what her story was. I can’t remember a time when I had the leisure of waltzing through a store with just a baby and 10 items-or-less in my cart, but I do recall feeling out of place in a town where if you wear make-up, people will ask where you've been. I used to hope for things like my jeans working the magic my friend promised they would. Your ass will look better than Jennifer Aniston’s in these! Now all I want is to be waterproof and dog friendly.
I loaded up. My car, dirty, hadn’t been cleaned since before winter. Washing cars in upstate NY is borderline mental. Reusable grocery bags, torn, but still in working condition. Wouldn’t replacing them be defeating the purpose? I turned the radio on, the college station still blaring from when I was bopping around from home to school to the dog park to the gym earlier. And what else would I be doing? I sat behind the wheel, happily munching on my local apple. Without realizing it, I had gone totally Ithaca.
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