Hello, everyone. I’d like to start by saying that, since the beginning of our relationship, I’ve been open and honest about my life. Except for one itty, bitty thing. Drum roll, please. I will now reveal a deeply held secret known only to those closest to me, plus the 17 doctors I see on a regular basis. Oh, and I told Bruce Springsteen, my idol, but he loves me anyway!
I qualify for reduced admission to zoos, waterparks, roller rinks and even the Grand Canyon. There! It’s out there in the universe: I’m a woman of a certain age. Bruce Springsteen knows exactly what I’m talking about. So don’t make me repeat myself. Now being a woman of a certain age isn’t all bad. In fact, one of the perks of being antiquated during a pandemic is sunrise shopping at le supermarché pour la crème brûlée, parlez-vous Francais?
Are Seniors Bowling Pins?
And, girl, you haven’t lived until you’ve seen a bunch of gray-haired, mask-wearing old mamas and papas beatin’ each other to a pulp just to get their hands on a box of Graham crackers. Think Mad Max Beyond Thunderdome, but everyone has a walker instead of a rocket launcher. {Sidebar: my cougar-motif mask doubles as a disguise should I — ahem –“accidentally” knock down a fellow oldster like a human bowling pin. Strike!}
But there is more to senior shopping at sunrise than just doom and gloom, fisticuffs, and mayhem. There is a beautiful, almost spiritual, anticipation involved in the experience. Preparing to leave home, I take a moment to envision the meat and poultry aisle, imagining the joy of nabbing two packages of chicken breasts and rump roasts and tucking them into the freezer.
My babies. Frozen stiff, but safe and sound with mama.
Does Bruce Springsteen Dream About Toilet Paper?
Dancing in my head like sugarplums at Christmas are visions of Cottonelle two-ply toilet (excusez moi, s’il vous plait) bathroom tissue nestled next to shelves and shelves of Bounty paper towels. Dear Lord: will I wrap my arms around the bosomy softness of products so vital to my existence they envelop me with an intimate knowingness only experienced between psychiatrist and patient?
As for wipes, well…even I know that finding Clorox wipes, or even the shitty ShopRite ones, is an accomplishment only dreamed of by the innocents. Those who long for a perfect world: a Garden of Eden where Adam and Eve did not sink their teeth into that mean ol’ Macintosh and were perfectly happy to wipe their peaches ‘n cream tushies on banana leaves.
But, before stepping into the bright lights of Mecca, my brethren and I must deal with the freeloaders. Minions of Satan hiding behind tie-dyed masks, they wear bell-bottoms and Pink Floyd t-shirts and murmur “flower power…flower power…” within our hearing. But we know they aren’t children of the ‘60’s. They’re dirty rotten scoundrels in their 40’s trying to get a leg up on grandma’s rib roast.
Are Seniors Secretly Zombies?
We instantly become a single throbbing entity encircling the fraudsters like starving gray-haired zombies. We hiss. We growl. We bare our teeth. The imposters flee to their SUVs, escaping apocalyptic boomer dismemberment.
Long live payphones, typewriters, and Howdy Doody! Baby, we were Born to Run!
And then, at long last, it is six o’clock, the dawn of a new day. Glory Hallelujah! The store manager, in her long white robes and holding a gilded staff, stations herself at the supermarket doors. Slowly they swing open, revealing the bright lights of salvation and the fragrant smell of raw onions and fresh garlic to the faithful pilgrims.
The toilet paper death march begins. And Bruce Springsteen sings on!
Very, Very amusing!
I’m glad you found the story funny. I think it’s more humorous in the telling than in the actual experience! Tough times…