Aisle of Tears
By Melanie Dale
@melanierdale
I think I’m fine. I’m handling my big feelings like a grown woman, thank you very much.
I pop into Trader Joe’s for some grocery shopping. “Rhinestone Cowboy” blasts through the speakers as I push my red cart and I bop along, singing under my breath. When I come to the refrigerated juice section, I reach my hand out for the fresh lime juice and pause, remembering that the person who drinks this juice lives two hours away. I watch my hand retract toward the shopping cart handle like it’s someone else’s hand. This is someone else’s life, surely not mine, with my son at college?
We’d talked about it for so long and then somehow it happened and he doesn’t live with us anymore and now I’m standing in Trader Joe’s crying by the lime juice while Glen Campbell sings, “Well, I really don’t mind the rain, and a smile can hide all the pain.”
I don’t cry very often. Maybe once a year? That doesn’t make me braver or better. In fact, I wish I cried more, but my face just doesn’t know how to turn feelings into liquid. My butt does. With IBS, my feelings come right out. I guess I do cry, only out the wrong orifice.
When I occasionally am able to alchemize my feelings into tears, I get excited and try not to scare them away. I’m crying! The relief is palpable. Like a face enema. But now it’s happening in the grocery store, which is less awesome, although certainly better than if I was doing my usual anal grieving.
I wheel my half empty cart to an open checkout and instantly regret my lane choice when the cashier greets me with his napalm-level gregariousness. He unleashes a huge smile and a string of chipper questions about my shopping experience. I have landed a guy who can’t read body language or was sent here to terrorize me.
I already hate grocery small talk on a good day.
A sampling of times I’ve been assaulted by unwanted grocery store conversations
Her: Oh how do you like these cookies?
Me: They’re not for me. My kids like them. I’ve never tried them.
Her: Why not?
Me: I’m gluten free.
Her: Why?
Me: (Cue discussion about back door sadness.)
Her: (holding up a can of collard greens) How do you fix this?
Me: (feeling like a Yankee interloper) I was gonna go with a can opener and a microwave.
Her: What recipe are you using?
Me: I don’t know. Please just take my money. I’m already regretting this purchase.
Her: Why are you sweating so much?
Me: Menopause.
Her: You’re too young.
Me: Tell that to my oncologist.
Her: Cancer? Me too! But I never sweat.
Me: Aren’t you lucky.
Him: I’ve been wanting to try this. It’s on sale. Do you like it?
Me: It’s for my kids.
Person from church: That sure is a lot of alcohol in your cart.
Me: It’s my husband’s. (Sorry, Alex. How’s the view from that bus I threw you under?)
Him: (Scanning $400 worth of food) Wow, are you having a party?
Me: Nope, feeding a swimmer.
Her: Must be nice to eat ice cream.
Me: It’s for my kids.
Her: I can’t eat dairy like that. Gives me diarrhea.
Me: Sorry, I only talk about my diarrhea on the internet.
Her: No alcohol sales on Sunday morning.
Me: I need red wine for my Sunday pot roast.
Her: Should’ve planned ahead.
Me: What if I show you my church bulletin from the early service to prove that God’s okay with it?
Back to my current situation
Anyway, small talk in the grocery store line is a challenge, and even more so when I have tears brimming in my eyes and my nose is threatening to run into my reusable bags. Maybe middle-aged white ladies cry in the store more than I think. Maybe this is a normal day, because checkout guy at Trader Joes is bringing his small talk A-game, asking me how my day is going, what I’m looking forward to, if I have big plans for the weekend.
Look at me, man. I am so obviously going home to eat this entire box of gluten free Joe-Joe’s, m’kay? Let me out of here.
I choke something out about taking our son to college. He lights up and shares all about where he’s going to school and what he’s majoring in and now my tears have joined with my snot to create a river of bodily face fluids dripping off my chin.
Finally outside, I make it to the car and the sobs come out full force, racking my body. Mouth wide, face contorted, I release anguished screams onto Highway 74. I drive one-handed, wiping my snot with my shirt.
Why did the grocery store of all places unhinge me like this?
I have a very large, man-sized hole in my life. A teenage man who swam and ate 4500 calories a day. I don’t know how to cook without Elliott.
For the next couple weeks, I avoid the grocery store. I rummage through the freezer pulling out forgotten soups covered in ice crystals and pilfer my pantry, combining strange and stranger ingredients until finally, when we are completely out of food, I go back to Trader Joes.
This time, I try something new. Something I haven’t done in twenty years. I start asking myself, “What do I like to eat? What do I want to make for dinner? What sounds good to me?”
At first I don’t know how to answer that. I walk through the whole store, up and down every aisle, and put nothing in my cart. Back where I started in the produce aisle, I take a deep breath and try again. On the next pass, I think the chicken looks good. By the third turn around the store, I have enough for a few meals.
As my son moves into his new dorm, I move into my own new normal. Life isn’t over. It’s a new chapter with so much living still to do. I’ll learn to cook smaller as I dream bigger.
Well, it’s been a good 12-year run, but this is Melanie’s last essay for Coffee + Crumbs. She’d love to keep in touch through her Substack or Instagram or website! She’s currently working on two books, a YA horror/thriller and the sequel to Girl of Lore, her debut novel about a girl with OCD who starts a club to research the town lore but finds a mysterious book and a body drained of blood and starts to wonder if the legends might be true. When she’s not writing, Melanie’s teaching yoga or driving to middle schools for author visits.
Photo by Jennifer Floyd.