Because I Forgot The Most Important One of All.
Friends, I hang my head in shame at the thought that I neglected to tell you the most important grocery store story (so far). Maybe you are not as lucky as I am to have a devoted friend who is willing to harass — sorry — remind you via all caps texting that while her story is somewhat thematically distinct from the original grouping of grocery store stories, “YOU ACTUALLY FORGOT TO WRITE ABOUT THE TIME YOU TRIED TO WARN ME ABOUT THE DANGER AWAITING ME AT MARKET BASKET AND I DIDN’T LISTEN TO YOU AND ALMOST DIED”.
Well, I am eternally grateful to have such a gem of a friend in Caroline, who for years now has endured me exposing my gift to her repeatedly (which sounds way dirtier than I mean it to). But she still has yet to actually listen to a damn thing I say. For instance, in her presence I have predicted the winners of no fewer than the last five Superbowls and probably more beyond that, only I didn’t realize how important it was to document it until this year, when I yet again had to patiently defend my track record to her while we all sat and watched as she curled up completely into the fetal position in an armchair by halftime. Yelling, “Are you SURE, Susan??” and peeking out at the last two quarters through her fingers.
She can contort herself thusly because she is a tiny, diminutive thing. Like, for real. She is a true shorty at 5 feet blahblahblahblahblah. (Everyone knows those additional two inches are poetic license). Next to my 5’10” frame, only 1/4 inch of which is fictitious, we make a fantastically hilarious Mop and Bucket, both in appearance and in our ability to make each other gasp and snort-laugh at the same time.
Unlike Caroline, who also has a charming habit of freaking out and texting me about politics after 9 pm which everyone knows is way past my prime vocabulary hours, but who also refuses to be comforted by anything I say in response, I try to welcome the influence that she has had on me and show my appreciation for it. Like when I crashed and burned right out of the gate returning to dating after losing my husband (and my breasts). I’d been abruptly dumped by a man who after reading my blog determined that “there was a certain immaturity” about me “that wouldn’t be good for him long term”, so of course I had to text Caroline immediately that I was unbelievably proud of myself about that and so should she be, given that this was obviously all her fault, bad influence that she was/is/will forever be upon me.
And even though many, many people suspect intuitives are any number of flavors of not right in the head, from immature to outrightly mentally ill, and even though it wasn’t the first time I’d encountered that prejudice, it had stung. Caroline texted back an outraged, “On what planet are youimmature???”
“On this one, apparently,” I responded, “Although I have to say this is the first time in my entire life anyone has ever called me that to my face.” Her response brought tears to my eyes it was so touching and supportive.
“I KNOW YOU ARE BUT WHAT AM I?”