Target Runs and "The New Norm"
What the hell are we doing?
Yesterday was a very strange day. Not only did I not know what day of the week it was for most of the proceedings, but I also decided it was finally time to venture back into the retail jungle known as Target to retrieve some depleted necessities. It being my first time in any shopping situation for quite awhile, I maybe underestimated the pomp and circumstance that now goes along with a quick run to the store in this dreadful new era of COVID-related lockdowns. I prepped myself as best I could before ever stepping outside my front door. Mask? Check. Gloves? Check. Fear and Trepidation? Check and Check. I wasn't sure exactly what I was afraid of, but I most definitely knew I felt much resistance to the whole excursion. I thought about my last trip to the Target. It took place several days ago, possibly two weeks, for sure not more than three. Or it could have been the day before last. Who the hell knows about time anymore? And speaking of that last trip, I wasn't sure what I thought I would find this time around, but my memory from way-back-whenever reminded me that it was not nearly as bad as I had imagined (or feared) it would be. There were no bodies haphazardly strewn over the aisles, no children running around all willy-nilly while violating my six feet of personal freedom. No adults spitting in the face of the new societal rules, or of anyone else thankfully. To my reassuring near-delight, there were just a bunch of people out and about, doing their thing. Shopping. Occasionally getting too close, yes. But seriously: Who could possibly follow all the rules 100% while on a desperate and depressing scavenger hunt from hell to find any paper product soft enough to wipe one's own ass with? Such are the challenges of our current times, and they are most definitely nothing to sneeze at.
So what did I find on Monday?
Well. I sat outside the Target in San Leandro for a few moments, or maybe it was ten minutes. Who could say. As I contemplated getting out of my car, there was a twinge of fearful paralysis. I looked at the paper face mask resting on the passenger's seat with a heady mix of gratitude and hatred. It was a strange cocktail of emotions, made even more so by the pair of large-sized blue nitrile gloves that lied right next to it, a few inches away from that light-blue face protector. Deep breath. Time to suit up. I slipped on the gloves, and then the mask. I glanced into the rear view mirror, barely recognizing myself but ultimately relieved to see that my appearance matched the majority of people whom I had just seen shuffling aimlessly into the store a few minutes earlier. As I got out of my car, the brisk East Bay wind hit me in the face, chilling the parts of my mug left uncovered by the paper mask. Approaching the entrance, I noticed my glasses beginning to fog up as I breathed in and out under that mask. Questions were bubbling up. Did I have the mask on properly? Did I need to adjust it? Would I ever be allowed to touch my face again? Might I just fog up and spin out right there in the entranceway? Would anyone be able to save me from myself, or would they just point at me with furrowed brows from a socially acceptable distance? I grasped for answers. Who knew that simply crossing the threshold of your local Target could cause so much panic and consternation?
I grabbed my little red basket, immediately wondering who the fuck had wiped it down or whether it had even been cleaned recently. I relaxed a bit when I heard the young gentleman at the door tell another customer that all of the carts and baskets had already been de-COVID-ized. Thank you, Target Jesus. I started my sprint toward the groceries. Along the way, I found myself peering over my mask at everyone through harshly judgmental eyes. One woman didn't have on any PPE at all. Fool! Another man was talking on his filthy cell phone from under his mask. Idiot! Teenage boys in a group of three were powering through the store with no obvious regard to the prescribed six degrees--er, feet--of separation that was now required. Assholes! Maneuvering through the warehouse-y expanse of Target was turning into a potentially lethal episode of the classic 80's video game Frogger, except here I wasn't dodging cars. I was dodging ignorant jerks, most of whom existed only in my fear-clouded brain.
Forget all that. I started to refocus on the reason I was there in the first place. I concocted my shopping list the prior day using the Notes section of my phone, fully intending to transfer it old-school style onto a single piece of paper which could then be crumpled up and tossed or maybe even burned after the whole Target nightmare was over. But I didn't. I forgot to do that. Fuck. I wasn't sure if I should touch my Iphone 8+ while those gloves were still on, so I kept it stowed away in the left pocket of my jogging pants. As the wheels turned frantically in my head, I started to feel myself sweat a little. I was suddenly clammy. Was it the start of a fever, or just the onset of pure panic? I took note of my heavy, masked breathing. Sounded a little like Darth Vader or Jason from those "Friday the 13th" movies. At least my glasses weren't foggy anymore. I looked down at my blue fingers, and noticed that little red basket under their clench was still empty. I needed to round up my shit. I gave myself a little pep talk. You can do this, Paul. Pull yourself together!
The actual shopping finally began. Thankfully, I didn't need any toilet paper during this visit, but that didn't stop me from walking down it's home aisle to witness the empty, ransacked shelves that bore witness to one of the greatest retail crises of our lifetime. This whole year is in the shitter, I declared. Makes sense that there is no toilet paper! I managed to find some of the things I wanted, mentally recalling my digital shopping list with relative ease. Soap, cereal, peanut butter, almond milk, a loaf of wheat bread. I even went rogue and threw in a small bottle of chewable immune supplements. I still had a bunch of those left at home, but what the fuck. My inner hoarder felt justified. And besides, this whole experience was leaving me feeling slightly nauseated and more than a little self-righteous. At least I didn't hog all the toilet paper, I reasoned. Into the basket went the vitamins. The score was clear. Paul 1, Selfish Bastards 0.
I wearily found my way to the self-checkout. My little red basket was piled high and seemed to weigh a ton. I patiently waited for the young man stationed there to wipe down my checkout and motion to me that it was safe to come over and start scanning. Finally, it was my turn. As I dragged my stuff one by one over the sensor, I noticed the woman at the checkout next to me getting a little too close. She was frustrated at something and calling to the worker for help. I felt like calling in my own help to escape her encroaching presence. Just stand back of the white line, lady, and nobody will get hurt. I began scanning faster to get the hell out of there, bagging my haul rather quickly. As we were not allowed to bring along our own reusable bags anymore, I took note that the plastic bags I was loading up were now free of charge. How nice, I thought. A small victory among the ruins. As I pulled my credit card from the reader, I wondered if it too should be destroyed after this outing or at the very least, sanitized. One thing at a time. I grabbed my three overflowing (free) plastic bags full of quarantine stuff and bolted for the exit.
The outside air was cool and sobering. I wasn't sweating anymore, nor were my glasses opaque. I had retrieved most of what I needed, but somehow I still felt terrible. By the time I opened the car door, I felt like crying. I loaded the bags into the back seat, managing to recall the proper way to take those damn blue gloves off. I did so, then slid into the driver seat and shut the door. Time to remove the mask. Once it was off, I glanced up into the rear view mirror. My brown eyes looked sad and defeated. I can't live like this, I thought.
The drive back was quick and a bit of a blur. It was a dismal, cloudy early Monday afternoon. Not too many cars on the road. By the time I reached home, I was already in full reflection of the horrific experience I just had. Unfortunately, it was not yet complete. One more thing still needed to be done: Those groceries needed to be set in their final resting places. Oy. Yet another corona puzzle needing to be solved. This tipped me over the edge. There was so much information out there that explained how to do this "properly", and I had certainly read most of it yet in that moment, I couldn't comprehend or recall any of it. Worse yet, I didn't give a fuck. I had done my best. I began to see myself as the exploding-head emoji, the one I typically use to textually express to others my absolute bewilderment during moments like this. That visual made me chuckle. I was the exploding-head emoji, and potentially the one with a single tear coming down, too. And most certainly I had been the one with the mask. Just put the shit away, I thought. So I did exactly that, washing my hands immediately afterwards with a slightly rebellious half-smile. I followed that up with a couple of pumps of hand sanitizer from the freakishly large plastic bottle displayed prominently on the kitchen counter. That bottle was a coup, the ultimate score of the past few weeks of pandemicking. Who would have thought that an item as banal as hand sanitizer could cause a person to feel such pride and joy? I have no idea, but I can tell you that I did. This is the new norm, at least for now. Time is measured not by minutes or days but by Target runs. I sighed in relief. This one was over. I felt pretty good. I was still here, and my hands were clean. I made it home in one piece. I had a roof over my head. Upon second look, there were some things to be grateful for. Maybe I can live like this after all, I thought.
Yesterday was a very strange day. Not only did I not know what day of the week it was for most of the proceedings, but I also decided it was finally time to venture back into the retail jungle known as Target to retrieve some depleted necessities. It being my first time in any shopping situation for quite awhile, I maybe underestimated the pomp and circumstance that now goes along with a quick run to the store in this dreadful new era of COVID-related lockdowns. I prepped myself as best I could before ever stepping outside my front door. Mask? Check. Gloves? Check. Fear and Trepidation? Check and Check. I wasn't sure exactly what I was afraid of, but I most definitely knew I felt much resistance to the whole excursion. I thought about my last trip to the Target. It took place several days ago, possibly two weeks, for sure not more than three. Or it could have been the day before last. Who the hell knows about time anymore? And speaking of that last trip, I wasn't sure what I thought I would find this time around, but my memory from way-back-whenever reminded me that it was not nearly as bad as I had imagined (or feared) it would be. There were no bodies haphazardly strewn over the aisles, no children running around all willy-nilly while violating my six feet of personal freedom. No adults spitting in the face of the new societal rules, or of anyone else thankfully. To my reassuring near-delight, there were just a bunch of people out and about, doing their thing. Shopping. Occasionally getting too close, yes. But seriously: Who could possibly follow all the rules 100% while on a desperate and depressing scavenger hunt from hell to find any paper product soft enough to wipe one's own ass with? Such are the challenges of our current times, and they are most definitely nothing to sneeze at.
So what did I find on Monday?
Well. I sat outside the Target in San Leandro for a few moments, or maybe it was ten minutes. Who could say. As I contemplated getting out of my car, there was a twinge of fearful paralysis. I looked at the paper face mask resting on the passenger's seat with a heady mix of gratitude and hatred. It was a strange cocktail of emotions, made even more so by the pair of large-sized blue nitrile gloves that lied right next to it, a few inches away from that light-blue face protector. Deep breath. Time to suit up. I slipped on the gloves, and then the mask. I glanced into the rear view mirror, barely recognizing myself but ultimately relieved to see that my appearance matched the majority of people whom I had just seen shuffling aimlessly into the store a few minutes earlier. As I got out of my car, the brisk East Bay wind hit me in the face, chilling the parts of my mug left uncovered by the paper mask. Approaching the entrance, I noticed my glasses beginning to fog up as I breathed in and out under that mask. Questions were bubbling up. Did I have the mask on properly? Did I need to adjust it? Would I ever be allowed to touch my face again? Might I just fog up and spin out right there in the entranceway? Would anyone be able to save me from myself, or would they just point at me with furrowed brows from a socially acceptable distance? I grasped for answers. Who knew that simply crossing the threshold of your local Target could cause so much panic and consternation?
I grabbed my little red basket, immediately wondering who the fuck had wiped it down or whether it had even been cleaned recently. I relaxed a bit when I heard the young gentleman at the door tell another customer that all of the carts and baskets had already been de-COVID-ized. Thank you, Target Jesus. I started my sprint toward the groceries. Along the way, I found myself peering over my mask at everyone through harshly judgmental eyes. One woman didn't have on any PPE at all. Fool! Another man was talking on his filthy cell phone from under his mask. Idiot! Teenage boys in a group of three were powering through the store with no obvious regard to the prescribed six degrees--er, feet--of separation that was now required. Assholes! Maneuvering through the warehouse-y expanse of Target was turning into a potentially lethal episode of the classic 80's video game Frogger, except here I wasn't dodging cars. I was dodging ignorant jerks, most of whom existed only in my fear-clouded brain.
Forget all that. I started to refocus on the reason I was there in the first place. I concocted my shopping list the prior day using the Notes section of my phone, fully intending to transfer it old-school style onto a single piece of paper which could then be crumpled up and tossed or maybe even burned after the whole Target nightmare was over. But I didn't. I forgot to do that. Fuck. I wasn't sure if I should touch my Iphone 8+ while those gloves were still on, so I kept it stowed away in the left pocket of my jogging pants. As the wheels turned frantically in my head, I started to feel myself sweat a little. I was suddenly clammy. Was it the start of a fever, or just the onset of pure panic? I took note of my heavy, masked breathing. Sounded a little like Darth Vader or Jason from those "Friday the 13th" movies. At least my glasses weren't foggy anymore. I looked down at my blue fingers, and noticed that little red basket under their clench was still empty. I needed to round up my shit. I gave myself a little pep talk. You can do this, Paul. Pull yourself together!
The actual shopping finally began. Thankfully, I didn't need any toilet paper during this visit, but that didn't stop me from walking down it's home aisle to witness the empty, ransacked shelves that bore witness to one of the greatest retail crises of our lifetime. This whole year is in the shitter, I declared. Makes sense that there is no toilet paper! I managed to find some of the things I wanted, mentally recalling my digital shopping list with relative ease. Soap, cereal, peanut butter, almond milk, a loaf of wheat bread. I even went rogue and threw in a small bottle of chewable immune supplements. I still had a bunch of those left at home, but what the fuck. My inner hoarder felt justified. And besides, this whole experience was leaving me feeling slightly nauseated and more than a little self-righteous. At least I didn't hog all the toilet paper, I reasoned. Into the basket went the vitamins. The score was clear. Paul 1, Selfish Bastards 0.
I wearily found my way to the self-checkout. My little red basket was piled high and seemed to weigh a ton. I patiently waited for the young man stationed there to wipe down my checkout and motion to me that it was safe to come over and start scanning. Finally, it was my turn. As I dragged my stuff one by one over the sensor, I noticed the woman at the checkout next to me getting a little too close. She was frustrated at something and calling to the worker for help. I felt like calling in my own help to escape her encroaching presence. Just stand back of the white line, lady, and nobody will get hurt. I began scanning faster to get the hell out of there, bagging my haul rather quickly. As we were not allowed to bring along our own reusable bags anymore, I took note that the plastic bags I was loading up were now free of charge. How nice, I thought. A small victory among the ruins. As I pulled my credit card from the reader, I wondered if it too should be destroyed after this outing or at the very least, sanitized. One thing at a time. I grabbed my three overflowing (free) plastic bags full of quarantine stuff and bolted for the exit.
The outside air was cool and sobering. I wasn't sweating anymore, nor were my glasses opaque. I had retrieved most of what I needed, but somehow I still felt terrible. By the time I opened the car door, I felt like crying. I loaded the bags into the back seat, managing to recall the proper way to take those damn blue gloves off. I did so, then slid into the driver seat and shut the door. Time to remove the mask. Once it was off, I glanced up into the rear view mirror. My brown eyes looked sad and defeated. I can't live like this, I thought.
The drive back was quick and a bit of a blur. It was a dismal, cloudy early Monday afternoon. Not too many cars on the road. By the time I reached home, I was already in full reflection of the horrific experience I just had. Unfortunately, it was not yet complete. One more thing still needed to be done: Those groceries needed to be set in their final resting places. Oy. Yet another corona puzzle needing to be solved. This tipped me over the edge. There was so much information out there that explained how to do this "properly", and I had certainly read most of it yet in that moment, I couldn't comprehend or recall any of it. Worse yet, I didn't give a fuck. I had done my best. I began to see myself as the exploding-head emoji, the one I typically use to textually express to others my absolute bewilderment during moments like this. That visual made me chuckle. I was the exploding-head emoji, and potentially the one with a single tear coming down, too. And most certainly I had been the one with the mask. Just put the shit away, I thought. So I did exactly that, washing my hands immediately afterwards with a slightly rebellious half-smile. I followed that up with a couple of pumps of hand sanitizer from the freakishly large plastic bottle displayed prominently on the kitchen counter. That bottle was a coup, the ultimate score of the past few weeks of pandemicking. Who would have thought that an item as banal as hand sanitizer could cause a person to feel such pride and joy? I have no idea, but I can tell you that I did. This is the new norm, at least for now. Time is measured not by minutes or days but by Target runs. I sighed in relief. This one was over. I felt pretty good. I was still here, and my hands were clean. I made it home in one piece. I had a roof over my head. Upon second look, there were some things to be grateful for. Maybe I can live like this after all, I thought.
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