Self serve

 Lost my wallet again. 

It has a tracking device inside it, which has a dead battery inside it, too.

Who knows where it is. My best guess? It's in a parking lot somewhere, having tumbled from my lap where it had balanced, forgotten between errands, for who-knows-how-many miles. 

This is usually how it happens.

Though I also leave it at the checkout quite a bit. Forgotten between slipping my credit card into the mouth of the do-it-yourself till and the moment I reach my car and start unloading the bags from the wonky-wheeled cart into its trunk.

If I am lucky, I notice right away and not five hours later, when I go back to the store for the thing I went for in the first place.

I used to love the grocery store. 

When my kids were little, their father would tag in so I could make a little vacation at the market. I'd start at self-serve coffee and spend an enjoyable hour sipping as I strolled through every aisle. I'd stop long enough to kvetch with my brethren browsers about how management must move half of everything at least twice a month, just to ensure we look close enough to forget our lists and tip a few new things into our baskets. 

On the hottest summer days, I'd orbit the store to stay cool. Studying the ice cream with the doors open, leaning into a tower of mint chips until the glass fogged. ... Or until people came.

I hear my mother's voice inside my head: What-do-you-think we're doing here? Heating the great outdoors?"

People. "Perfect strangers," she'd call them, emphasizing the perfect part. 

I remember her chatting with some of the less-than-perfect ones in the dairy aisle: catching up on the news as she inspected her would-be purchases for cracks.

"Good egg, that one!" She'd say about her friend as we headed for the butcher shop.

She snorted the words "Butcher Shop," as we stood in front of a refrigerated shelf of stretched-wrapped meats painted an impossible red. They were the only two words that could transport us to a place closer to home. It was long gone now, but the memory of the shop was still fresh. The specter of a man in a straw hat still vivid as he cut a steak to order, wrapped it in brown paper, secured with a string, handed it to my mother, and added a folded slice of bologna for me. 

I'd like to think my kids will have a random memory of me float back to them, and they will smile fondly. But it won't be any of me in the grocery store. Especially not the time someone admired my boots.  

"And there she was ... in the pasta aisle ... balancing on one foot as she handed her shoe to a stranger who only wanted to know if it was heavy." 

In my defense, the boots were new, and compliments seemed novel. I can admit I got carried away. 

And then they stopped going with me. But not because of that.

In pandemic times, it's been safety first. 

Things seem different now. 

Perfect strangers don't talk to each other anymore. We barely exchange glances. When we do, we only see something to judge or some fresh hell to catch. Stranger danger is infinitely more frightening than ever before.

If silence was golden, avoidance is now platinum.

I try not to worry about a future that's unprincipled. Just like I try not to think about a future that's unpeopled as I check my own groceries through self-serve.

But sometimes it's hard.

I wish all of our troubles were as easy as not finding lost wallets. Cancel and start over.