Cheese Shamed

I allowed myself to be cheese shamed at the store the other day and it wasn't even done by a proper monger. As I walked to the back corner of the store where the cheese lives, I could feel my heartbeat quicken with anticipation. You see, I had just found a brand of cottage cheese called “good” and not only is the company super responsible with how they source their milk, but they also make really good cottage cheese, which, in my opinion, is almost as rare as a well-fitting pair of 9-inch high rise bicycle shorts. There is a meal in England that properly captures that experience for me; two sausages topped by something soft and amorphous...yes, bangers and mash.

Anyway, back to my current food addiction. I made a stop, inconvenient though it was; I think I was running late to get my dog to the vet, which is more evidence that getting my tubes tied was a good thing. But you see, I had run out of my "good" that morning and I don’t like being out of my favorite foods. It leaves me feeling vulnerable in the world, like wearing a boat neck shirt in Forks, Washington.

I clicked loudly through the store in my “These Boots” boots and felt my heart rate quicken as I got closer to five 36 inch letters that hung from the wall above a 25 yard cold case in the very back of the store, "D-A-I-R-Y" loomed as a beacon toward my mecca.

I don’t know what it is as this pandemic wears on, but I remember feeling mean mugged by the eyes and forehead wrinkles of every person I passed on the way back. It’s subtle, a slight narrowing, teensy tiny, mouse-sized daggers defending the six feet of space we are all so bad at measuring. As my Christian friend says, just keep Jesus between you (apparently Jesus was 6 feet tall, who knew?), this unit of measurement is a problem for me, because there is something saintly about that turn of phrase that makes me feel like a terrible person. It’s like the whole WWJD (What Would Jesus Do thing) except super real-time, like WWYDIJWWRN (What Would You Do If Jesus Was Watching Right Now). I feel like 9 times out of 10 at this point in my life Jesus might just smite me down. Little did I know, Jesus wasn’t going to have to be in charge of the next opportunity for smiting.

I kept going, letting the daggers fly by. I was on a mission and my dog was waiting in the car. I got to the DAIRY sign and saw a little girl was holding a cold case door open and breathing hot air onto the glass and drawing smiling faces and hearts. I wanted to high-five her, she and I were cut from the same cloth. I wonder how common that is; it was the first time I had seen it as an adult, but I have vivid memories of doing it myself and getting verbally corralled by my mother who was never buying me the drumsticks that I so desperately wanted. My little faces turned to frowns with each bag of frozen peas that got tossed into the cart.

I passed the little girl with a big smile on my face, which probably was misconstrued as mouse-sized daggers. The mom called to her daughter, telling her to stop. I was saddened that my attention to the little girl's behavior caused the mom to probably feel like she was being a bad parent which is what drove her to action, to gently discipline; which is what squelched a little bit of joy from that little girl's day. My response to her childlike, playful creative endeavor inadvertently caused a domino of reactions that shut it down. Parent shaming ruins everything for everyone. Yes, I am also a victim in this scenario.

I finally arrived at the nesting area of my "good". There was a man stocking the cold case and he was in the way. While trying to maintain six feet and simultaneously procure my "good"s, my eyes landed on the spot (where it is frequently sold out) and took in an abbreviated rainbow. There was more than just the simple duo of blue and white, like fluffy cumulus clouds on a bright summer day. There was also an alarming but familiar duo of red and white that initially assaulted my eyes. Then, not a split second later, my brain assimilated the information and triple cherries went off in my mind, jackpot! I cannot emphasize the significance of a "WooHoo" sticker on a container of "good" enough. It would be like walking into a car dealership and the salesman says, "Oh, the 2019s are getting a little old, you can have it for 75% off." Little do they know, when you grow up in a household where your dad was raised by parents of the depression era, expiration dates are more or less like stop signs to Californians. Keep going, but maybe exercise a little caution, if you feel like it.

I tried to reign in my excitement, "play it cool, don’t let anyone else see." I never take a cart or a basket into the store to minimize the potential damage I can do whilst strolling aisles upon aisles of food. You’d think I was visiting from a third-world country every freaking time I walk into a grocery store. The colors, the variety, the price per ounce measurements in the tiny box in the corner of the price tag that tells the real truth of who is trying to rip you off (again, thanks, Dad). I approached the situation gingerly and aggressively at the same time. I didn’t want to get in the way of the man working inside the next door and I also wanted EVERY SINGLE "good" for myself. They were the single-size cups too, perfect portion control and portable, a little security blanket to stash in my work bag for moments of hunger or stress relief between clients.

I created a basket with my left arm, which I could see was immediately hopeless. Lefty has reduced neuromuscular control due to an infringement on the good brain matter from a craniotomy years ago. If that neurosurgeon had any idea how it would impact my ability to collect and carry my stash of "good"s, he would never be able to forgive himself. I cursed him at that moment for trying to get those diffused cancer cells. I called an audible and decided to go the tower route instead, lefty supporting the bottom "good", righty stacking them on top of each other. My cute, smallish, but big enough to nest single-size goods between them boobs supporting from the sides, my chin, finally, something for my chin to contribute to in this lifetime, holding the top of the good tower steady. I had done it, my own Tower of Pisa, but this one, actually significant.

It was at this moment the stocker threw out seven words that altered the very state of my being, “You know, those are almost expired.” He said it so casually, apathetically even. But it landed callously. It landed thick with judgment, I could feel it viscerally. I was surprised the density of the judgment could get through the cotton barrier that covered his mouth. I wished it was duct tape at that moment. My cheeks flushed red, like the WooHoo sticker that adorned my Cumulus goods. A Cumulonimbus settled on my heart and I found myself dismantling my own tower. I let this man’s words affect my behavior. I let little, invisible sound waves tickle the cilia in my ears which sent a signal to my brain, which triggered a shaming event hidden deep within the archives of my grey matter with a tangerine-sized hole in it and I reacted by doing what was socially appropriate. I put half my tower away. I let him (and probably his good intentions) cut down my joy, literally, in all the ways.

I got home after the vet appointment and lined my "good"s up in the fridge, WooHoo side out, so I could revel in their beauty. The line didn't make it all the way across though, there were gaps and I wondered if the whole tower would have filled it perfectly.