I should have known the little old lady with the tight perm and polyester pant suit was trouble when I saw her weaving in and out of lanes in produce. I should have kept my distance, but I had other things on my mind. Things like, “How can I tell if this eggplant is ripe?” and “Did my son really just put a twist tie in his left nostril?”
It happened while I was in the freezer section. One minute I’m trying to decide between Butter Pecan and Mint Chocolate Chip, the next I’m pinned between the freezer door and my own organic produce and Greek yogurt-laden grocery cart by a limited mobility vehicle.
After she figured out how to remove her foot from the gas pedal, the driver was very apologetic.
“I’m so sorry! Are you okay?” she croaked as I extricated myself from the wreckage. But thanks to an extra layer of abdominal padding I wear as a proud badge of having survived two pregnancies, I was no worse for the wear. I could think of only one thing as scooter lady put her cart into reverse and began navigating a three-point turn: my little son, Jonas. Last I’d seen him, he was standing a few feet away from me and nibbling on a cookie.
“Watch out!” I warned him.
But he was way ahead of me, and had been spared. “I saw her coming,” he said. This from a kid who normally looks both ways only after he’s darted headlong into traffic.
The grocery store is not the only place where hidden dangers lurk. Many times have I become light-headed after breathing shower cleaner fumes in an unventilated bathroom, and not a day goes by when I’m not impaled by an errant Lego. I’ve pulled my back hefting a fifty pound bag of play sand from my car to the backyard, fallen off the counter whilst trying to change a light bulb, and somehow given my own self an electric shock just by flipping the switch on the garbage disposal. I’ve watched in amazement as things have caught fire inside my oven and once, when the P-Dawg was working late, I had to kill a spider.
Maybe I’m in the wrong profession.
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