So the pandemic has been happening for months now. My husband and I have been watching the news with the ups and downs of surges, wearing masks, avoiding family gatherings (most of them anyway), cooking most meals in, and eating takeout only once or twice a week to support our local restaurants. And for seven months I went without a haircut! Holy Judy Collins!
Only three times during these nine months have we eaten outside at a restaurant with friends--when it was allowed. Cooking every day means once in a while I have to venture out to replenish our supplies. We keep extra masks in the car and hand sanitizer to clean our hands before we drive home from the stores. Then we wash them thoroughly again when we get home. I tell you this to assure you we do take this pandemic seriously.
One bright and sunny day recently, I went to our local "organic" supermarket for a few needed items, wearing my mask, and socially distancing, except when the occasional shopper-in-a-hurry pushed by me. (I tried not to breathe when they did.) I hurried through the store, checking off the items on my list, afraid to linger where the virus might leap under the gaps in my mask and infect me.
When I had everything, it totaled 12 items, so I dutifully stepped towards the "15 Items or Less" checkout stand. Since an older man (60s) was checking out, I looked for the large green circle marked on the floor that clearly stated "STAND SIX FEET APART" and placed my feet exactly in the middle, grateful I 'd soon be on my way to the safety of home.
Minding my own business, I looked around wondering if I should drop out of line to pick up some bread, then nixing that since I already had some in my freezer, and also reasoning I would lose my place in line . . .
Suddenly the man at the cashier's desk pointed me and shouted. "Get back, Lady! You're not six feet away from me."
Confused, I looked down at the green circle underneath my feet. I lifted one foot up. "Look," I said, "Yes, I am. I'm on the green dot. I'm exactly where I should be."
"No you're not!" he shouted even louder. "You need to move away!"
I thought a moment, calculated his distance from me and figured it must be about ten feet. I looked to the cashier for help, but she had suddenly become blind and deaf, focused on his items and continued to ring them up on the cash register.
"No," insisted, "I'm fine. I'm on the green dot." Trying to sound a reasonable note, I added, "Look, I'm old too. I don't want to get this viru . . . "
"I don't care if you are old, you need to move back!" He shouted again.
"No I don't. Look, how tall are you? If you lay down you still wouldn't reach . . ." He wasn't listening.
"People like you are the ones who are spreading this virus . . . " He continued to rant more things at me, not all of which I could understand.
Feeling annoyed, I finally said evenly, "And a Happy Thanksgiving to you too."
He turned to me and sputtered something about causing him and others to die on Thanksgiving due to my behavior. Still shouting and waving his arms, he took a couple of steps towards me--actually decreasing the precious distance between us.
At that point I feared for my safety, and seeing no help from any employees in the vicinity, I dredged up my sergeant-major voice, developed during many years of raising five children, three of them boys.
I raised my arm, locked on his eyes (above his mask), pointed my finger at him, lowered my voice, and boomed, "BACK OFF!" It resonated through the front part of the store, I'm sure.
He stopped dead.
The unflappable cashier never looked my way and just recited the amount he owed. Stepping back, he pulled out his wallet and turned to her. "Watch out for that crazy old lady!" he said.
Wait! What! I'm crazy??? I narrowed my eyes, but I kept my silence.
Just then the other cashier at the station just beyond him called "Next in line" and looked at me. I hesitated as it meant I would have to pass behind and within two feet of the Idiot. Wallet still in his hand, he turned to me and beckoning to the passage past him, called out, "Come on! Come on!" sneering at me as I scooted by and turning to mumble to his cashier again about me "the crazy old lady."
I unloaded my twelve items as my cashier said, "Hi, how are you today?"
"I was fine until I met up with the Idiot there." I replied. Ignoring my comment, she was distantly polite, and I could tell she thought I really was a "crazy old lady." I kept one eye on the Idiot as he finished picking up his groceries and passed behind me to leave the store, mumbling as he did.
I like to think I behaved with calm dignity as I paid for my groceries and left. On the way to my car I smiled as I realized: for one sweet moment I had felt triumphant. I still had it! The ability to stop an active child, or an Idiot shopper dead in their tracks.
I had not backed down, I had kept my nerve, and I was not a crazy old lady.
Or was I?
