And that’s what I’m calling it.
I can’t complain much about the day (well I could, but who’d listen? [knuck knuck knuck!]) It was nearly as calm as life can allow on an average day, and I consider myself kinda lucky for that.
My journey ended at an All Walls Shopping World where I filled a basket of loosely– to un -associated grocery items, and scotch tape. I plowed my way through the lightly populated store, wondering why I do my shopping at any other time besides the final open hour.
A year or 2 ago, my confidence and trickling tenacity was applied almost exclusively to my struggling survival. Now that I make quick work of surviving, I can use the newfound strength for odd-jobs. From timid to the point of apathetic to, “well, someone has to do it”, I arrive at this impasse.
Dismay comes over me like a fitted sheet to a mattress as I arrive in the pet supply section and do not immediately find that which I quest. The dry food selection seems colorfully plentiful, except for Melody’s flavor in Melody’s brand.
I was about to flee when I came to the logic that I should look around a little. People put shit wherever they want—maybe my shit was on this wall somewhere. None appeared misplaced, or in surprise quantity elsewhere. Dare I glance in the way back? “There’s always 1 more” something says to me, and I peek in the far back. Sure enough, my prize was there, waiting to be won. I reach for it—and withdraw empty-handed, having not even grazed the bag with my fingertips. So I stand on the bottom shelf, giving me perhaps an extra 4 inches, and I still can’t reach. So I move the bags next to me, so I can fully fit my head and shoulders into the hole, and I still can’t reach. I climb out, bewildered, and my tubes slightly shrunken in failure.
But I am not yet defeated.
It has crossed my mind at various points to find some help. I mean, people like, work there. I don’t know what it was—what stoked this fire in me to get the job done myself—but I can say it was partially at the thought of flagging down a little old man who would struggle more than I.
Which gave me a fresh thought—how would that clever old man compensate? I needed a tool. I look at both ends of the aisle and spot on the other side an unremarkable sign stating “spill station” and I strolled over, feeling very strange yet sure of myself. I jiggle something like a door and atop some rubbish sat my glorious weapon, a stubby broom. I was seriously expecting a grabber or something, but a broom is all a witch needs in this situation. I casually returned to my basket and my tricky bag of cat food thinking,
“You’re mine now, motherfucker.”
I’m not leaving without it. I’m not leaving with something different. I’m not asking for help. That bag is MINE, I take responsibility for it, I will get the fucking bag. It’s MY BAG OF DRY CAT FOOD AND I’M GONNA FUCKING GET YOU.
IT’S THE BAG NO ONE ELSE WOULD REACH FOR, I KNOW BECAUSE IT WAS THE ONLY ONE OF ITS KIND AND UNREACHABLE ALL THE REGULAR WAYS. IT IS MY PRINCESS IN THE TOWER, THE BROOM MY SWORD, THE HIGH, SKINNY SHELF MY DRAGON. I WILL SLAY.
As I stand on the shelf, stick my whole body in the product hole, and thrust my broom forward, I know there is no going back. I come out with that bag of cat food, or I do not come back at all. The path was set before me long before I realized I was even on it, and the only way out was through.
I stab, repeatedly, with my wrong hand, because it’s the only way I can fit. My strength waivers for a moment. Maybe this isn’t the right tool?
NO! IT’S MINE! IT’S MINE NOW, THIS TIME.
And with the plastic end of the stubbified broomstick I tilt the bag just enough to give me the Reacher’s Edge. I put down the broom and try not to think about how close my face is to the bristles. GO GO RANDA EXTENDO ARM. The corner of the bag is between two fingers now, and I let my weight easily pull it towards me as I dislodge and step down from the shelf.
Ahhh.
I went from feeling a bit foolish to kinda crafty, as I leave my basket, but carry the bag with me as I return the stubstub broom to the spill station, just as it was or frankly, made slightly more awesome by the endeavor.
The last bag is mine.
I grab a thing of cat litter, and return to my full basket.
I don’t need a cart, okay? Don’t suggest I do. This is fine, I got it.
Immediately as I exit the aisle I am passed by a tall, youthful and sturdy associate with a wagon of tubs, and on that wagon was a convenient-looking step ladder.
That’s nice. If I had stood around waiting for something convenient to happen, something would have. I could have been rescued by a bored-looking knight with a small ladder.
Hmm, but as I recall, this bag of dry cat food is my princess, and I was the only one that was going to rescue it. I smile knowingly, he looks confused as he turns down the aisle after me.
If you’d ask, I guess I’d tell ya, this is the good life. But who’s listening, anyway? (Knuck, knuck, knuck!)
11/30/23
Written by Randa 