Meijer and the fear of public vomiting

. . .

⬆︎ those are my pondering dots. 

you've read this post's title, so now the dilemma is-- how do I unpack that day of personal infamy? maybe I'll begin with a date stamp...

December 23rd, 2020

for the record, I had already made 3 Meijer visits over the previous 2 days, but still had to make another $186 trip to the superstore. #sonofanutcracker!

I finish loading my cart, thrilled to make my way through the holiday-busy, 6' socially distance store, when I realize that all the people/carts I'm trying to navigate around aren't just annoyingly browsing in the aisle's walking spaces--they are parked; as in, waiting in line for one of the four cashiers!

I make a u-turn from the ridiculously few "real" cashiers, and begin the daunting task of weaving through men's unmentionables, plus-size leggings, and holiday sweaters, towards the 12 items or less u-scan--all the while simultaneously reviewing my cart's contents; hoping beyond hope I can shed dead weight and turn my 12 x 12 items into... fewer than that. 

before I toss items willy-nilly from the cart, a hard reality check smashes into my dead weight fantasy. the u-scan line snakes through plus-size, active-wear and ends in SHOES!

another course correction. I've resigned myself to an actual cashier, I face the next insane line of people, it's worse than I originally thought. 

I give myself a quick mental pep-chat: I'm no Meijer noob, I'm a pro with 15+ years of experience. Meijer can't out think, or out creative me! (poor mind grammar, but sometimes that's how pep-chats go). 

I make a recon run, analyzing, running the numbers, Meijer sheep customer patterns... and that's when I found it-- the hidden short(ish) line in the over-priced candle and tissue paper aisle. I swoop in, ignoring the stares and jaw-droppers when they realize the massive coup d'etat I just pulled off. 💪🏼

the older hippie-guy in front of me turns to lean against the shelving, gives me a once-over with a "in-the-secret-aisle-know-nod" and proceeds to work on his phone's candy crush game... with the l o n g e s t (natural) yellow/grey fingernails I have ever seen on a man-human... at Meijer (I've lived in Taiwan).

not gonna lie, warning sirens nagged my mind. I ignored them, sure that getting out of Meijer was the ultimate goal. still... another quick scan of Mr. Nine Inch Nails (NIИ), revealed beard with food crumbs, unzipped jeans (👀!), Birkenstocks, and the same yellow/grey fingernail theme, but on TOES!

with sweaty palms, I wipe my clammy forehead, head spinning, my oversized Carhartt hoodie feels like an electric blanket powered by lava. 

an unhelpful image flashes through my mind: me sitting in a poorly-lit cement-floored basement, a loose circle with fellow therapy patients, as I recite: "hello, my name is tracinell, and I have an irrational fear of vomiting in public."

I shake my head, willing the premonition away, but that shake ripple-effects into a tsunami wave of nausea through my overheated system. I'd kill for a sip of water, or a cool breeze. 

refusing to be forced into therapy by Mr. NIИ--I resolve to leave the now claustrophobic-secret-aisle, and head for the 45 minute wait line, but with safety in numbers. just as my damp palms grab the cart handle, my sense of surgical-masked smell is sucker-punched by a horrific stench of body odor. I'm trapped! a mani/pedi phobia in front of me (with beard brunch and unzipped jeans), and an obese maker of stinky-human-cheese-in-the-folds-of-his-skin behind me!

my personal vomiting nightmare ramps up several notches to living HELL level; I white-knuckle death-grip the cart handle, clamping down the impending stomach heaves. I lean over, head between my arms, hoping there's a breeze below the waistline that hasn't been putrified yet, but not so low that gravity will just pull the vomit from my churning stomach.

full-on praying now, I glance to the left and stare at the wall of tissue paper. a glimmer of hope that if public vomiting is my destiny, at least there is something to soak-up the shame with. 

a warm breeze of putrid stinky body cheese wafts between the folds of my medically-enchanced-paper mask. my head swivels to the right, I blurry-vision, but somehow make out rows, and shelves, of hyper-fragranced candles.

in a flash, I am tearing off candle lids, mask-filter inhaling pumpkin nutmeg pie, candle fireside, lilac blossoms, sparkling cinnamon, frasier fir, banana walnut bread, creamy vanilla swirl... my face half an inch from candle wicks as I inhale-gulp.

the line moves; a classic good news/bad news scenario. I'm leaving the tunnel-like aisle, but still have the same human-ickiness in front and behind me. I avert my eyes from the troll toenails hanging over the birkenstocks, and grab the biggest "to-go" candle I can find; I position it directly under my masked-nose.

after a few deep vomit-taming breaths, I glance up to see frightened Mr. NIИ staring at me. he nudges his cart forward to a 6' 3" distance. with the candle pressed against my sickly-green face, I tempt fate and look behind me. Stinky Cheese Man pulls his cart back to a 6' 6" distance from me.

beyond grateful for my portable, waxed Christmas-Eve's-Eve miracle, I glance at the name of the candle, "Life's a Breeze." 

Meijer and the germaphobe

here's the thing-- I took 10th grade biology, so I understand a thing or two about bacteria, aka germs.

they're everywhere. ev-er-y-wher-e 
(the last hyphen is unnecessary, of course, but I like the aesthetic)

it's one of those life realities, that as humans, we just have to accept. 

let me repeat that, just accept it, use good hygiene practices, and MOVE ON with life.
(in my head, I all-caps shouted, so I hope you did too)

a few years ago, when I found myself face-to-face with a specifically designed stand of antibacterial wipes next to Meijer's royal blue carts, I rolled my eyes, grabbed the cart's handle and walked away. 

now, I know, not everyone feels the same as I do. for instance, the new mother; it takes a kid or two before you accept life's germ-y realities. and yes, the medically fragile; they can't afford to be so overt eyeroll dismissive. fine. understood. but the rest of you--I'm looking at you Meijer crazies--really need to find a new hobby.

it's mid-morning and I need to pick up a few items. I pop in my earbuds and take my time walking to the indoor grocery cart-sanctum that this newly remodeled Meijer has created. I'm not in a rush, because it isn't Saturday, I even take in a cleansing inhale/exhale (that's yoga, right?) as the automatic doors whoosh open, revealing a clutch of Meijer customers, hanging out(?) in front of the cart tunnel.

ever the Meijer Outlier (thx Malcolm Gladwell!), my plan was to bypass the bystanders, grab a cart and commence shopping. I maneuver myself in front of the silent sheep customers, only to instinctively step-back with a mix of shock and consternation.

a woman has situated herself, her cart, and the stand of antibacterial wipes, directly in front of the rows of carts... while she vigorously cleans the cart.

yeah. 

the entire cart. 

the 35 seconds or so that I had patience to watch her (I could kick myself for not recording her with my iPhone, for the sake of this post), she wiped down the handle (repeatedly), the top and bottom edges of the basket, each basket wall--exterior and interior--and the legs of the cart. with each section, she dropped the dirty wipe onto a little pile on the floor.

she was in her own little antibacterial induced bubble--mentally and physically oblivious to the outside world--much less the Meijer customers waiting for her to move so we could get our own germ-infested carts.

when she eyed the wheels(!), and reached for the next wipe, I made my move. I stepped in front of the antibacterial stand and in my louder-than-normal voice stated, "excuse me, I need a cart."

I think the combination of my voice and physically blocking her from the wipes, burst germaphobe's OCD bubble and snapped her back to reality. 

with index and thumb fingers, she pushed her cart out of the way. I smiled and thanked her. I grabbed my cart, as did the other customers, but then noted that germaphobe had a new dilemma: a pile of bacteried-antibacterial wipes. 

horrified grimace when her eyes darted from used-wipes pile to the garbage can several feet away. knowing that my other super-power is common-sense (my other, other super-power is, of course, a secret), I scooped up the pile, smiled at her and tossed them in the garbage. #Heroic

if the CDC asked me to write their PSA germs slogan it would be, "wash your hands, but not until they bleed."