my infant son and I are walking down an aisle when suddenly someone leans very close to my ear and says, "I buy those too, gotta watch my waistline." I jerk back a bit to see a 45+ year old woman smiling at me and tapping her belly. I notice that peeking from her nearly zipped jacket is a homemade, felt, lavendar-colored heart-shape with the words "Jesus loves you and me," written in purple glitter glue (why is it that I immediately assume people are insane when I see such trite messages, is it the glitter glue?)
Anyway, I nod as I'm walking away in the opposite direction down the aisle. I realize as I'm turning the corner that she's still talking to me. I ignore her. I turn into the next aisle searching for bread, crackers, lost in thought, when I hear, "he is very cute! So precious." Now, if I said she stated the word "precious" like Gollum in LOTR you would know I was exaggerating, so tone Gollum down a bit, and there you have it. Again, I nod and smile as I'm pushing the cart away from her. I decide not to push my luck and skip the next TWO aisles, surely I'll be safe from her prying eyes and hair-raising Christianity.
I'm lost in my search for TP, not realizing that the once bustling aisle is now empty--I hate the 1-ply! I blame myself for getting so wrapped up in reading the fine print for the elusive 2 ply. Once again, I hear, "He is sooo cute, haven't I seen him somewhere before." Then she arches her eyebrow and says in a loud, knowing way, "Haven't I seen YOU somewhere before?" For some strange reason, I understand her implications--she thinks she's seen me and my son on a milk carton or missing child mailer!
I feel a panic feeling rise up into my throat, suddenly trying to figure out how I'm going to prove that my son is my son and we are not on the run! If necessary do I show the police my stretch marks? Do I recount every minute of the six hours of labor for them? I'm not a photos-of-every-family-member-in-the-wallet kind of person, so I can't even produce a poignant scene of my son and I hugging and laughing.
Back to my stalker, she starts looking around for someone, when I finally decide to end the madness. "I just have one of those faces, I get that a lot." I say with curtness and a pinch of false laughter. And for some reason, I pull out my phone, give her a meaningful glare and start to dial the phone. My bluff of calling someone (who would I call the police?) worked, or perhaps she was a Luddite, afraid of the technology god that the cell phone invokes.
Meijer crazies= 0 traci=1