All dressed up and nowhere to go. That’s not exactly true. I haven’t been “dressed up” in weeks, but nowhere to go is pretty accurate. Unless, of course, you count the grocery store. What an experience, right? These days, I’m suffering from a lack of measurable accomplishment. When my husband (who is still working) comes home from a long hard day, I feel the need to have worked hard at something too. A trip to the grocery doesn’t seem that big of a deal, at least not before Corona. Given our current situation, when you do go out, it feels like you have to be suited for battle. And if you do find that elusive chuck roast (after the third stop,) you might actually be considered a hero. I call that measurable accomplishment.
What I used to be able to do in an hour or so is now an all day event. Gone are the days of just running in to grab a few things. I’ve seen the news. I’ve scrolled Facebook. I’ve watched the videos clarifying proper use of gloves and face masks. As a member of the aesthetic industry, I’m very familiar with proper sanitation procedures, so I’m feeling pretty comfortable with my skill set.
I can surely be smart about running to the store. This wasn’t even a large grocery run to one of the big box stores, I needed just a few things. So with a well thought out plan, I headed to my local store. I had this figured out!
I had carefully chosen a pair of pants with pockets for my outing (just call me smarty pants) so that I could leave everything else behind. In my car, I had organized this nice little basket that held everything I would need for a safe shopping experience: mask, gloves, hand sanitizer, and Lysol.
Choosing a parking spot at the store has become its own challenge. I survey those around me, choosing an end spot so that I would not have to open my door next to someone. I slip my keys and debit card in my left pants pocket. I carefully put my mask on and glove my right hand. I’m ready!
I’m not ready. I remind myself, “Leave phone in car. Oh wait, my list is on my phone. Can I remember everything on it? No. So I scramble around looking for a pen and paper to write out that list. Done. Now I’m ready!” The list goes in my left pocket.
Inside the store I carefully get a cart but only use my right (gloved) hand. In my well thought out plan, I’ll use my left hand to grab the item I want and place it in the cart {since using my right (gloved) hand would carry germs from the cart to the item I am purchasing.} I repeat in my mind, “right hand on cart, left hand on groceries.” Remember, “right hand on cart, left hand on groceries.” At check out I’ll use my left hand to grab my card and keys from my left pocket. I’ve got this figured out!
Maybe I don’t. I’m only in the third aisle as I reach for my cart with my left hand. This sinking feeling comes over me. I can feel the heat rising. Inside I’m screaming, “Now what? I’m inevitably going to contaminate my keys! And my card? And my list in my (left) pocket? What do I do? Abort mission? Carry on? I don’t know! It’s just too much!”
In my discombobulated state, I realize I’ve approached someone a little too closely, perhaps within 5 feet or so, I’m not sure. Maybe it was 4 feet. Is that the person I heard coughing up a lung just a few minutes earlier?
Fearful of the social distancing police, I nervously tuck my hair behind my ear. My mask falls off one ear. It’s only hanging by the other ear loop. Again, I ask myself “what do I do?” It’s quite a scene. I look like a half-gloved, half-masked lunatic walking around not knowing which hand to grab what with. My mask succumbs and ends up in my over-stuffed left pocket.
The spur-of-the-moment decision I make is to get my stuff and get out of there as fast as I can. Once at my car, I reach for the door handle. But do I reach with my (still gloved) right hand or my (ungloved) left hand? And at what point do I take the glove off? Where do I put the glove? I’m not exactly sure, but soon realize it’s time to accept defeat. Everything is contaminated! I drive home and pull into my garage alerting my kids, “DON’T. TOUCH. ANYTHING.”
I wrestle my germ infested bags into the house and set them all on the floor (can’t put things on the counter, right?) I start washing the things I can one by one: a gallon of milk, a bag of frozen corn, a jar of peanut butter. But what do I do with that bag of chips and that box of cereal? I can’t wash those. Then I remembered what was in my arsenal…Lysol!
I spread out a large towel and spray everything that I can’t wash and deem it untouchable for 24 hours. My kids escape to their rooms because the Lysol fumes are driving them out of the kitchen. Who cares that their Lucky Charms might have a (not so) subtle lavender Lysol flavor? Germ-free is all that matters, right?
Now I go back and trace my steps because the door knobs are contaminated. The faucet I touched to wash my hands is contaminated. The car door is contaminated. The trunk handle is contaminated. I spray Lysol on them to the point they are dripping wet. Let dry for 10 minutes the instructions say. I think I’ll let it sit overnight.
As I shake my can of Lysol, I realize it’s nearly empty. I can’t find any more. Anywhere. Looks like I’ll be heading back to the store.
