Oh man! I was that guy. Me. I was that guy that wished beyond all hope that I could suddenly turn invisible and slink away from the glare of hundreds of staring eyeballs. Like the first seconds of a traffic accident when suddenly everything moves in slow motion, all sound collapses into a hushed vacuum, and your body cringes to protect itself from the inevitable impact, then everyone, with the instinctual uncontrollability of a moth to light, looks to see the carnage laden aftermath. Yes, I was the one sheepishly standing amongst the wreckage and ruin when the world stopped to look and see who had been the absent minded fool that could not pass where thousands of others had easily navigated before him. I stand naked before you, striped of my dignity. I am that man.
It all started innocently enough, just like every other Sunday…
My wife and I headed to one of our favorite little French bistros for our usual brunch. The birds were singing in unison with a knowing vigor that almost put their song on the tip of your tongue like a long forgotten Motown tune. The fall crispness gently pinched our noses red as the late morning sun bathed us in a warm glow like a spotlight following the suave hero and beautiful starlet heroine across a stage. We got to the restaurant and, like Moses’ parted Red Sea, the waiting crowds separated to let us quickly sit at our favorite table.
Our cosmopolitan conversation was surely the envy of any eavesdroppers. “Tee hee ha ha” I knowingly chuckled at my wife’s Euro-wit just a little to loudly so all could hear me. You could almost see a beret on my tete, a pencil thin mustache above my lip and a cigarette perfectly balanced between my fingers as I leaned back sipping coffee spinning yarns that turned the mundane into verbiage gems of gold. “Au contraire” I cried for all listeners to hear (and who would not want to hear?) “ I could not imagine my joie de vivre being disturbed by a fait accompli in my future caused by my own faux pas. Heh heh hee ha.” Knowingly pausing too long for effect, my wife slyly retorted with l’esprit de l’escalier “quelle horreur?”
Ah it was just another one of our typical enchanting Sundays together like all the others. It was as if God himself took a break from all the church services to reach his mighty hand down to caress our necks and lovingly pinch our cheeks forcing us to uncontrollably smile as wide as the Cheshire Cat. Ah, yet another magical carefree Sunday. “Let’s venture across the street to Whole Foods where we might find a few special treats for later.”
Then the horror began…
I enjoy grocery shopping. Really. It’s no secret. I love food and the market is chuck full of it so I approach it with the vigor of an alcoholic at an open bar vodka festival. As if exploring all the various gastronomic possibilities is not enough, you can always have fun playing grocery store games like ‘find the most repulsive item’ (potted meat food product usually wins… look at the ingredients if you don’t believe me, the 1st one is partially defatted beef fatty tissues), ‘product mascot dating game’ (where you figure out what couples would work best like Aunt Jamima and Uncle Ben or Mrs. Paul and the Jolly Green Giant) or the classic ‘what can I hide in your cart without you noticing’ (getting someone all the way to check out with an unseen oversized package of Depends and 14 pounds of liver was my personal best).
On Sundays gourmet grocery stores, like our nearby Whole Foods, are always jam packed with an amazing diversity of people. My wife and I slowly wove through the crowd carefully adding a few selected items to our stubby mini-cart. A few fresh herbs and veggies, a bottle of our new favorite Castano organic monastrell grape wine to hold us until the new Beaujolais Nouveau are released Thursday and finally some fresh bread for our dinner. That’s when it happened.
I tried to follow my wife out of bakery area when an elderly couple using carts as walkers boxed me in. As I cut around the long way another older woman abruptly attempted to steer her cart into a near impossible tight u-turn. I was boxed in from all angles. Feeling a frenzied claustrophobic anxiety as I watched my wife get farther away, I quickly doubled back, juked around a display of fresh bread, twisted around behind a large Asian family and, with my wife back in sight, rounded one last display to catch her. Unfortunately my cart did not quite clear the corner display stack of bottled lemon curd.
CRASH!!!!! “Sacre bleu!!!” Several dozen bottles of lemon curd hit the ground. In almost slow motion some shattering with a follow up splat, some simply bounced and others rolled in all directions. A hush fell over the huge crowd as hundreds of eyes fell upon me. The loudspeaker called for a ‘liquid clean up’. Instantly the grocery store swat team swarmed drawing even more attention. With my pride and dignity shattered like the sea of glassy lemon curd around me I offered to pay for my mess as I bent down to help but the damage was done. I walked away fading into the crowd at the check out line opting to leave before I caused any more embarrassing destruction. I was that guy.
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