Hyponostalgia

I am staring at trash bags. Hmm. Trash bags.

No, I don’t need trash bags.

Do I need paper towels? Yes. Yes, I do. But I don’t feel like carrying them. Paper towels are big.

The bottles of Windex are merging into one another. It’s funny how they make Windex in lots of colors now. Something about that seems kind of un-American, even to a lefty chick like me.

I remember that what I really need is dinner. Yes. That’s why I’m in this store, even though the clerks are rude and the prices staggering. I’m very hungry. I would really like some pot roast.

I don’t know how to make pot roast. Well, I did make it once. It was good. But I don’t remember how I did it, except that it took a long time. I’d better just get something to microwave.

I need milk, too. And something else. What was it?

I’m not sure. Maybe I’ll get some brie cheese. Yes. Oh, this is expensive. Is there a small one? Why are all the numbers fuzzy? Here’s a small one. I’m really hungry. Is it okay to eat brie cheese for dinner?

Something isn’t quite right. Something.

Oh.

Oh!

Yes. I prop the test kit on a display of crackers. I don’t feel low. Maybe I’m too high.

61. Pish. That’s nothing.

Hey. I’m low in a grocery store.

Woo hoo! I’m low in a grocery store!

I can eat anything, anything at all.

These opportunities are rare. It seems very important to select the Best Possible Treat.

I wonder where the dark chocolate is. I picture myself blogging later about dark chocolate. You will all nod appreciatively and comment on your favorite low-busting indulgences.

I can’t find the chocolate. Maybe I should just eat something, anything. No, I should drink something. I should drink some juice. Where is the juice?

The front of the store has a cooler with bottles of everything. There should be juice there.

I wander in that direction. It’s crowded. The cooler is blocked by a line of people. I look at them. I know there are words, words I could say that would prompt these people to move. Then I could reach the juice.

Other people don’t have trouble thinking of words. I remember K and her 27 at the movie theater. That's a lot lower than I am now, but she had all the words she needed.

If I were K, I’d have words too. But I’m not K. I’m V, which is usually fine but at the moment seems a little inconvenient.

Happily, the line of people moves while I am trying to string together a few syllables. The first bottle my hand grasps is cherry Coke. Though speechless, I have the wherewithal to check to see if it’s diet. It is not. I open it and drink.

Gods. This stuff is good. So good. So effing good! I’d forgotten.

Briefly I’m thirteen again. Cherry Coke has just been invented. I am watching Monty Python & the Holy Grail for the first time ever, with my first-time-ever boyfriend. We’re eating Rocky Rococo’s pepperoni pizza.

Life is resplendent with laughter, possibilities, and carbohydrates.

I pull out of the flashback before the part where Zoot’s twin sister begs Sir Galahad for a spanking. (Way too embarrassing. Folks did not joke about such things in West Des Moines, Iowa, in 1985.) Already I feel a little steadier. I pay for my randomly selected comestibles, including the half-bottle of soda. I even remember my PIN number in the checkout line.

At home I clock in at 96. The brie is splendid.