Warning: This story contains moments that may move you to cringe, gasp, and frown at the unlikelihood of the following unfortunate events. Now, let the story commence.
Every Saturday, the grocery stores fill with shoppers, and in Utah, most money-wavers want to purchase their puddings and pasta before Sunday—the day of rest. So, I don’t shop on Saturday. Usually. However, one time the weekdays were overwhelmingly busy, and I stood with my shopping cart: in the fruit section at my local grocer, on a Saturday.
Some relaxing feeling smoothed over my senses, and I went from strawberry to blueberry leisurely. I passed the avocados, which were still disappointingly not-discounted, and I made my way to the back of the section. As I neared the vegetables on the rear wall, I looked to my left for the first time—and I saw. I saw him.
I’m sixteen. I’m allowed to date now. I’m allowed to do a lot of things. That cute boy that I knew through a friend spends time with me on New Year’s Eve. We kiss. It’s my first kiss: He knows it and I know it. We don’t live close enough to visit, so we message over months. I take bad advice and we have an awkward falling out.
He looks so similar to that time when I first met him, except a thin beard lines his chin. That wasn’t there a couple years ago, when we reconnected.
I’m in my twenties and living in Provo. There’s a friend across the street that I’m beginning to crush on. Joshua Herrera. I don’t know it, but in a few weeks, I’ll write him a letter to tell him how I feel, and in less than a year, I’ll call him husband. However, before any of this happens, I reconnect with my first kiss at a friend’s event. He briefly says hi but needs to leave. Later, he messages me. He wants to go out. I should have said yes…shown kindness…but. I said no.
Maybe I had a sixth sense, or maybe survivor’s intuition kicked-in, but by the time I had seen him in the store, I knew he had already seen me. He chatted lively with some friend, and I gathered that walking across the fruit and vegetable section to interrupt their conversation and say “hi” might not result in rejoicing over our relived memories of rejection. I stayed on my path to the back.
Based on sitcom sketches, I know I’m not the first person to avoid awkward interactions in the grocery store. The oblivious act applies to us all (if it doesn’t apply to you, that’s fantastic. Please message your best advice on this subject).
I had ignorantly made my way through the vegetables, pretending as if I had not noticed that he had followed a similar path as mine and was now at the back as well. At least, I had everything and could leave to the next—bananas. I had forgotten bananas. They were in the aisle directly across from where he stood, and no covering could prevent me from seeing him, or vice-versa.
Some people might skip the bananas for a week, but my smoothies, oatmeal, and cream of wheat relied upon this botanical berry. I left my cart behind and focused straight ahead to my destination. La-la-la, I sang to myself, I’m unaware of my surroundings.
Heaven hailed a tall restock cart to the bananas just as I arrived, and it covered my line-of-sight to him. I could safely claim that I had known no better and leave without saying “hi.”
It felt good to get out. It was like I had quit a junky job or a haunting high school. Though for a time I endured the unpleasantry, I had escaped. I can’t say I remember the aisle I went to next, as it didn’t matter what I needed to get or buy. I only felt relief that I had secured a safe exit from a cold conversation.
I had forgotten that when you run into someone once at a grocery store, you’ll likely run into them twice.
And, in the next aisle, I saw him again. My heart palpitated. I only needed one thing, so I grabbed it and got out. Then, in the breakfast aisle, I debated if I wanted to buy Pop-Tarts (it’s an on-going discussion in my head: they’re unhealthy and I don’t want unhealthy things in the house vs. they’re a quick, yummy snack for my husband).
I became so engrossed in this discourse that I didn’t notice him until he had come down half the aisle. I still stood at the beginning. I couldn’t quickly “get-it-and-go” as before—I hadn’t decided if I should purchase the pops or not. My cart stayed steady on the right side of the aisle. On the left side of the aisle, the end of his cart stopped where the end of my cart began. LA-la-LA, I wearily echoed to myself, I’m OBliviOUS.
Sale price. The multi-flavors packages were on a closeout sale. I grabbed two boxes and stepped into the center to place them into my cart. Then, my heart rate increased.
He had chosen his cereal, and as I stood in the center of the aisle, by the outside of my cart, his shopping cart began to move forward. I pressed against the gray grid that contained my food and waited as his cart slowly slid past me. Before his presence passed mine, I decided to break the barrier. I would keep my ignorant illusion, but I would give him the opportunity to do the “Oh, is that you? Well, hey!” thing.
Knowing my standing in the middle was inconvenient, I said, staring at the shelved Pop-Tarts, “Oh, I’m sorry.”
Silence.
He left the aisle without a word.
A minute passed and my heart would not stop bothering my chest, so I continued with my shopping and let the adrenaline act as a motivator to check-off everything on my list. Of course, I needed something from the meat aisle next, and I’m not sure if we buy the same things or if this was some lesson that I needed to learn about human interaction, but he stood where I needed to go. Again.
Forget learning. I was not going to stand unmindful in the same area as him for a fourth time.
I traveled to the drink section where I would likely not run into him or anyone else I knew. Pretending I needed something there, I strolled slowly, until I could confidently say I would (probably) not see him again.
And I didn’t.
My heart never slowed, so near the end of my shopping, I called my husband and told my tale. I shunned myself for not saying “hi.” My husband assured me that most people would not. And so, perhaps there’s a lesson about human interaction here. Perhaps, we’d be better off to bite the bullet and say “hi” the first time, rather than suffer through four times of trying to keep up the unaware act. Or, perhaps sometimes you just have to pretend that you never saw your first-kiss.
Read MRC 