Being a big fan of the health of staying balanced in all areas, I'm going to share something funny with you from the book I recommended earlier, Domestic Affairs, by Joyce Maynard. But it's not a total switch in subject matter--you'll notice the familiar thread of having to have things and stuff and believing we cannot live without them.
Enjoy. And laugh, too. Well, at least I hope you'll giggle a little. Your heart will thank you for it.
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"One of the biggest discount stores in our area was going out of business--every item marked down 50 percent.... The place had been pretty well stripped by the time we got there, with half of what was left broken or dirty, and heaped on the floor. The snack bar, where I had hoped to purchase Charlie's (her son) tranquility with a bag of popcorn, was closed down, looking like Pompeii at the moment the volcano erupted, with grape soda still percolating in a cooler and coffee cups on the counter. No time for coffee anyway. Shoppers were racing ahead of us, cleaning out all the most popular bra sizes, stripping the shelves of shampoo and vacuum-cleaner bags and batteries. The speakers that used to pipe gentle organ music in my ears were transmitting urgent messages, meanwhile--like an emergency broadcast system during a wartime air raid, notifying shoppers of additional markdowns ("hurry, hurry!") and reminding us that soon the doors would close forever. I picked up my pace and flung a pair of crew socks into my cart for my husband, hitting Charlie on the head by mistake. We were off and running.
"There is a danger at an event like this one , of confusing the end of this particular store with the end of civilization in general. You begin to feel as if this were your last chance ever to buy anything. So you get four lipsticks, and enough photograph albums to see your infant son through high school graduation. I bought sneakers for my three children's next three sizes, and for Steve, five packages of underwear and (an impulse from somewhere out in left field) a set of car seat covers.
"Charlie was pretty quick to pick up the tone of the event. Having rejected the seat in my shopping cart designed for children in favor of the deep basket section of the cart, he stood, as if at the prow of the ship, facing out to survey the ocean of merchandise before him. Sometimes he'd reel in a string of Christmas lights or grab a stuffed animal by the tail. In the shoe department he hauled in a whole clump of tangled together fuzzy bedroom slippers. His diaper had come undone and was hanging down one pant leg; he had appropriated a hat, and he was waving to people as if he were running for office. I had never seen the particular crazed look that appeared on his face when, after I let him down from the cart for a moment, he clutched a bag of sponges and began to spin in circles, singing "Beat It." Even after I picked him up and was walking briskly down the aisle with my son under my arm like a rolled-up newspaper, to regain my cart, he still kept reaching out hopefully for kitchen spatulas and panty hose. And of course I know where he acquired the tendency. As I loaded my bags into the trunk of our car, I couldn't even remember , anymore, what it was I'd bought."
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