I’m wondering, does anyone else find themselves saying things that are a little out of character as they age? I used to be better at catching myself
BEFORE I actually said what was on my mind. Lately, though, I’ve noticed that some things are avoiding the filter and just slipping out. And they’re not just the odd cuss word, either. Truthfully, I’ve given up on filtering THEM. I’m a Jersey girl. We pepper conversations about hand lotion with salty words.
I’ve also been at a loss to explain where the young urban black woman who has lately taken up residence in my middle-aged, suburban, white body came from? Pop culture, perhaps? Frankly, I kind of like her and hope that she doesn’t go away. She may, however, need a bit of reigning in.
The most inexplicable and shocking example of this occurred not long ago in my “home away from home” — the grocery store, a place where I often feel invisible. This feeling of invisibility is not a result of people ignoring me, per se. It stems from the fact that they simply do not seem to see me. If they want to occupy the space that I’m standing in, or reach for the product that I’m engaged in purchasing, they just go ahead and act as if I’m not there. So, I have concluded, that I must be invisible. Why else would people think that the laws of physics don’t apply in Soup?
On every trip, I am plagued by the feeling that I’m being followed by someone who insists on breaching my space. It’s exasperating. The other day I was dogged by a woman whom I shall call “Mary Frances”. Sometimes I skip an aisle to try to throw folks like Mary Frances off of my scent. This method has its pitfalls, though. Mainly because it doesn’t always work out and we end up together in Paper Products anyway. Usually and inexplicably we both want the store brand paper toweling that’s on the top shelf. (I take some comfort in knowing that my nemesis is as cheap as I am!) It’s unsettling, to say the least, to have a stranger reach up behind you when you are on your tippy-toes attempting to retrieve the imitation Bounty! (Is it a pervert seeing an opportunity to “cop a feel”? “Oh, no. It’s just Mary Frances!” UGH!)
The other problem with employing this method is that I often forget to make a return trip to the aisle that I tactically omitted. As a result, The Fanganini’s wind up brushing their teeth with baking soda and peroxide for a couple of days. All because I knew, when Mary Frances and I went for the same melon in Produce, that if I planned on not losing my shit in Cereal, she must be avoided.
This type of thing would be difficult for the most patient person to deal with. No one would ever accuse me of having an abundance of patience. Try as I might, once in a while, I reach the end of my rope with the likes of Mary Frances.
The other day it happened — I ran out of patience — while I was going for the large jar of Nutella. (Fangette goes through that overpriced stuff like Sherman went through Atlanta — she burns through it!) I don’t even want to get into what the odds would be that Mary Frances and I, purchasers of cheap ass paper towels, were also, oddly enough, stocking up on Nutella, but we were.
It was there, amongst the jams and jellies, that I spun around, did my best Diana Ross, “Stop! In the Name of Love” hand gesture, and said to Mary Frances “Yo! Sistah! You need to back up off of my grill! There’ll be plenty of Nutella fo’ yo’ ass when I’m done gettin’ mine!” I’m pretty sure that, in addition to giving Mary Frances “the hand”, my other hand was on my other hip AND I was making a slight swaying motion as I admonished her. There may have been some finger wagging involved as well. Before Mary Frances could even think “Oh, no. She didn’t!”, I took off like a bat out of hell.
No one, including Mary Frances, could have been more stunned by my outburst than I was. Somehow I had managed to channel Whoopi Goldberg in her Academy Award-winning role as Oda Mae Brown in “Ghost”. I’m just going to blame what must be a faulty filter for my behavior. Because I have absolutely no idea how else to explain how ridiculous I must have looked (and sounded!) to either Mary Frances or the casual onlooker.
Well, okay. I have some idea!
produce aisle (morguefile.com)