Editor’s note: This post has nothing to do with a nonprofit, but it deals with the ways that grocery shopping has changed in the past month due to the COVID-19 situation. When grocery shopping, by the way, consider matching your total with a donation to the North Texas Food Bank or another similar program.
It had been a couple of weeks since I had ventured out of my rabbit hole to get some basics at the grocery store. The last time I went, I thought I knew how to tackle the once-simple task. I pulled into the parking lot at 6:45 a.m. It was already pretty well filled with cars and more arriving. Since the doors wouldn’t open until 7, I sat in my car watching the line outside the door grow. Then I spied a man parked next to me. At first he scared me. He was wearing a bandana around his face. Was he going to rob the place? Then I realized he was wearing the accessory of the day. Some folks were wearing blue or white masks; some wore CDC-approved homemade masks; others just went au naturel. I opted for the third look. After all, I was just going to dash in and out for a few things like frozen vegetables, a quart of milk, some canned vegetables and ground beef for soup.
The doors opened and the shoppers filed in. On closer inspection, I noticed that in addition to their masks, some were wearing gloves and caps. When the last one entered, I hopped out of my car and headed to the entry where a young woman with sprayer in one hand and a towel in the other was wiping down the cart handles. As I took a cart from her, she smiled and told me to have a good day.
Only it didn’t turn out that way. Where only weeks before there had been refrigerated bins filled with all types of frozen vegetables, there was nothing; the only milk was in gallon containers with expiration dates nearing; and above the shelves of canned vegetables and bags of cheese were signs reading “Limit 4”.
The scene was eerie. There was no Connie Yates welcoming customers over the PA. No one smiled. Well, at least you couldn’t tell with the masks. Most people wouldn’t make eye contact, while others eyed each other with looks of apprehension or fear. It felt like being an extra in the TV series, “The Walking Dead.”
As I took my place to check out, a staffer pointed out the large red stickers on the floor advising customers where to wait their turn. Despite being nice, the staffer still reminded me of a school hall monitor as she gently reprimanded any who so much as crossed their sticker.
Over the next 10 days, I decided to try to order food and necessities online. That would require no mask and no social distancing. The only problem was that most of the bare necessities wouldn’t be available until late April or May.
Since our household was starting to run on fumes, we decided that a run to the store on Saturday would be necessary. Like a noble soldier, I volunteered for the mission. It wasn’t out of courage. I just knew Husband Unit wouldn’t know the difference between a bell pepper and a Dr Pepper.
And this time I would be prepared. All the new world ways had changed my smug attitude.
In addition to my hand wipes and a meager list of must-haves, I had ordered some genuine, scientifically approved masks that were scheduled to arrive on Thursday. Only they hadn’t. A mere hiccup. I would use a bandanna that had been in one of the nonprofit swag bags. As we pulled up in the parking lot at 6:57 a.m., it wasn’t quite as filled as before and there was no line waiting to get in.
I tied the bandanna around my face and, like a soldier on a death-defying mission, I bid farewell to Husband Unit. His final words: “I’ve got my cellphone if you need me.”
Did he think I was going to collapse somewhere between the fresh produce and the bakery, requiring him to drag me out of the store?
As I entered, there was no young woman wiping down carts, but there were hand wipes available. I took one and started polishing my cart’s handle until I could see my reflection.
On the floor were more large red stickers. Unlike their cousins at the checkout stand, these were directional, indicating one way: turn this way, etc. Pity the poor soul who turned out to be a wrong-way carter. They weren’t ticketed, but they did get the evil eye from the other shoppers.
In the canned vegetable shelves, the limit signs were still up. And the toilet paper and paper towels areas were looking pretty wiped out.
But there were better moments, like: no limit on water, milk by the quart, cartons of eggs and crops of frozen vegetables stacked in the refrigerated cabinets.
I paused and from a distance thanked a non-masked staffer stocking the shelves. He smiled but kept working.
It was when I discovered a lineup of Minute Rice boxes on a shelf that I started having problems breathing. Was it the shock of finding the Holy Grail of internet shopping that caused me to feel dizzy? OMG, did I have COVID-19? A young man spying me in this condition started to back his cart away with fear in his eyes.
No, it was due to the bandanna wrapped so snugly around my face that I couldn’t breathe. Great! I could just see Dallas County Commissioner Judge Clay Jenkins doing his daily coronavirus death report: “And one elderly woman suffocated in the dry-goods aisle at a local grocery store.”
As I took my place at the checkout stand, I noticed that in addition to the sneeze shield separating me from the clerk, the credit card terminal had been wrapped in plastic, with just a slit to insert the card. No sooner had my card been swiped and approved than I looked up at a tall man wearing a mask with filter sacking my precious treasures. Just when the last bag was put in my cart, he wished me a safe and happy Easter. I could tell he was smiling.