shopping alone

It would never occur to most people to consider shopping alone to be a treat, but I do it so seldom that it is, indeed, a treat for me. Most of the time, my husband goes alone. Unlike me, he can rush into a store, grab what he needs, and rush out again. I am a lingerer, a wanderer, someone who goes up and down aisles just looking at stuff. Usually when it's major grocery-shopping time, we go together. He will get what is on the list. I will know if something should be purchased even though it isn't on the list. So several times a week, he runs the bread-eggs-milk errands, and once a month or so, we gird our loins for battle and purchase $200 + of meats, vegetables, staples.

Other kinds of shopping seem to be divided. "His" stores are Home Depot, Lowe's, Menard's, Staples, Circuit City, Best Buy, and any other place that sells electronic thing-a-ma-jigs. We share equal interest in Target and Wal-Mart. "My" stores are Michael's, Hobby Lobby, Field's Fabrics, JoAnn's, and similar artsy-craftsy places. I'm always intrigued by the kinds of people I find in Michael's. It's open on Sundays, so that's when I wander for an hour or two. I see a lot of women who look like me--alone, handling yarn, reading labels. We don't know each other, but we speak to each other as if we do. Today I had two brief chats, one with a woman who was searching for glue sticks. She asked if I knew where they were, and I did, so I told her. Another time, I was trying to find something specific and angled my buggy past the same woman in the same narrow aisle twice. I apologized and told her what I was trying to find. The looks we exchange carry more conversational weight than the words. It doesn't really matter what it is we're looking at or looking for. It's miserable and gray outside, our husbands are probably all watching some type of sports program, and we all look old enough to have grown kids. It's ME time, sisters. It's more than a room of one's own--it's a craft or hobby to do in that room.

The rare husband accompanies his wife. Usually these couples are old, and he's content to go along just because otherwise he'd have to be home alone. Maybe he drives because she doesn't or can't. Maybe he has aged past the point of gazing with puzzled disdain at his wife's hobbies and has learned to accept and maybe even be interested in them. He'll push the little buggy and guard his wife's oversized handbag while she contemplates the merchandise. Unlike when he was when he was younger, he won't be impatient. He'll listen attentively as she explains what something is for. He won't glance at his watch every two minutes. He'll even help her reach the merchandise on the higher shelves. Together they will be in the store for at least half an hour.

Occasionally a young man will wander through the store, but I've learned that he usually is the husband, boyfriend, or brother of one of the workers. It's rare for a young man to be there shopping, but if he is, it's usually in the art supplies. Today there was a big sale on good-brand acrylic paint, so I saw some younger couples who looked like art majors. (Having been one of them once upon a time, I know our look.) They'll be fingering the various canvas brands, wondering if they can afford the better quality Fredericksons or if they'll have to stick to the store's budget brand. They'll carefully pick up one of the high-quality brushes (the ones that start at $25 and go up from there), and if they buy it, they'll use it until it is an extension of their arms and hands, and they'll wash and care for it tenderly. They'll still be using it twenty years from now. Unlike the hobbyists who buy the packs of ten for five bucks, the serious art students know that it's worth it not to have to dig stray brush hairs out of drying paint. It's all in the ferrule, that piece of metal that joins the brush hairs to the handles.

Despite my many hobbies that include painting, I don't buy the hobby paints, those little bottles that scream "country charm" on the labels and have precious names like Honeysuckle Rose. I still buy the good stuff. When I unscrew the lid to a new tube of paint and squeeze out a dollop, it's all I can do not to touch it and smell it and rub it all over my hands. It's so beautiful, that dollop, with its pure sheen and richness. I almost hate to touch it with my brush, but if there's anything I like better than the purity of the dollop, it's that incredible feeling of brushing paint onto canvas. The canvas springs back just slightly, as if it's responding to the stroke like a cat raising its back into your hand. I've lost huge hunks of time inside a painting, though I should not say "lost." I'm not lost at all--I am as found as I'll ever get. The time is not wasted, though perhaps others would say it could be put to better use. There is no better use, even if the painting turns out to be a dud. It's like saying that making love is a waste of time.

It has been a very long time since I've felt bored. I'm not sure why I ever felt that I had enough time to waste on boredom. Feeling bored, when there is just so much to do, sucks up time that I could use making or doing or creating.

Happily, not doing the kind of creating that Esteemed Spouse dreamed of during his nap today. He raised his fuzzy head off the sofa pillow and announced he'd been dreaming I was pregnant. Now that's a true nightmare. Dr. S.