I had no idea what was in store for me today...

I'm mostly okay.

But, then again, aren't we all?

I am still coming to grips with my doctor calling me "high-functioning." I had initially taken it as a compliment but my husband informed me that it was, in fact, a diagnosis.

Huh.

Today, I was not okay.

With Brad out of town, I thought I would complete the holiday shopping that drives him nuts...namely, my agonizing over presents for my 4th graders. 

I went into Minus Funf. 

On a Saturday. 

In December. 

I ran laps endlessly in that crowded store, flinging treasures into my cart. Gummy bologna. How quirky! A unicorn-shaped ball popper! There were ones shaped like a shark and a dinosaur too! Into the cart they went! I shoved my over-flowing, uncooperative cart toward the check-out and stopped short at the line. My already-rapidly-beating heart responded with a frenetic drum solo of epic proportions. I looked to the door. This was when Brad Mosiman would typically arrive to wrestle me back to the vehicle. 

Nope.

The helpful Minus Funf staff gestured me to my self-check-out kiosk with its one-foot-by-one-foot of counter space. My unicorn-shaped ball popper was two feet in length. I had, of course, purchased four of them. Sweat peppered my brow. I fought to control my shaking hands and shakier breath. Balls rolled out of reach. I was the worst bagger EVER as my cloth bags kept collapsing. The screen interviewed me about my shopping experience, graciously offered me an opportunity to donate to the charity of their choice, and presented me with a host of choices of how to pay them for my doing everything short of driving the product to their store for them. I blinked tears angrily out of my way as I debated whether I wanted to print a receipt or save a renewable resource and thus remain ignorant about the cost of my purchases. I tried to calm my anxiety with empathy as I imagined the frustration of an illiterate person. Or an individual who couldn't speak English. Or the elderly. 

Wait. Was I THE ELDERLY?

I wrestled my uncooperative cart through the non-automatic doors and to my truck. The young man, whose only job is to point "customers" (otherwise known as "uncompensated workers") to the next available check-out station-from-Hell, watched me perform feats of gymnastic prowess to open the door and clatter his cart back in, thanked me for my kindness.

This should have been the end of my journey.

But Brad Mosiman was out of town.

Thomas Jefferson Minimum was right down the plaza...within walking distance. Even on a good day, Brad Mosiman does not let me go in there. It is an organizational nightmare. My OCD is off-the-charts in that store. So...it seemed like the perfect time to go. On a Saturday. In December.

I walked down the sidewalk and encountered a small plate sitting outside a store-front door. Upon the plate was a bagel. Buttered. Cream cheese. Protected by plastic wrap. Huh.

I made it to Thomas Jefferson Minimum. I should have seen the signs but I was infatuated by the abandoned bagel. I didn't notice that there weren't any shopping baskets OR carts by the (automatic) doors. I missed the vultures perched nearby...waiting to swoop on exiting customers to pick them clean of their purchase-carrying vessels. The tightly-packed clothing lanes drove me to the perimeter of the store and I was swept up in a human river...schools of shoppers flitting this way and that. I couldn't escape the current of consumerism. Before I knew it, my arms were filled with disco ball-shaped holiday lights, measuring spoons that looked like little copper pots, and two little boxed games of "Finger Twister," complete with a pair of tiny socks for the participating digits. 

Again, I found myself in a VERY long line and longed for my husband who would have stopped this madness. I would have refused to talk to him for several days as a result of his ruining my "fun," but, oh my goodness...so worth it. 

A human being checked out my purchases. "Did you find everything you were looking for?" I stared at him, incredulously. I hadn't been looking for ANY of this. Who in their right mind buys "Finger Twister?" But, at the moment, I was incapable of speech beyond one-syllable-ed responses.

"Yes."

He began to competently bag my items. When did I buy a Grinch romper? "Will you be paying with a Thomas Jefferson Minimum card today?'

"No."

He carefully placed a monogrammed mirrored compact into the bag. I prayed it had a relevant initial on it. "Would you like to apply for one? It only takes a minute and you will receive..."

"No."

He glanced up and noticed my beet-red, glistening face. He watched my shaky hands attempt to stuff my debit card into the electronic reader. He wisely decided that our conversation had reached its natural conclusion.

I staggered out of the store...thank you, Automatic Doors.

The bagel was still there. I debated its origin story. Did God set it there for me...as a parable (being out of place/in the wrong environment?)...as nourishment (I WAS really hungry). Was it bait? A murder ploy? I took a picture and sent it to my family. 

Is this some sort of trap to sex traffic me? I typed.

Only my son-in-law responded. Only one way to find out. Obviously, he's getting coal for Christmas. Or maybe "Finger Twister."

I made it back to the truck, gasping for air.

I needed help. Let me call my daughters.

Savannah. No answer.

Sydney:  No answer.

Shoot. My options were not good. Joan would tell me to suck it up (and eat some chocolate). Katriel was out of the country. No.

No. No. No. No.

"Hello!" came the bright, bubbly, ridiculously positive voice of Erin who ALWAYS answers my calls because I only call her when I'm dying.

Crying, I hiccuped some of my situation at her. "What do you need?" she asked, now ignoring the noisy bustling going on in her background and focusing entirely on me. "Just. Talk," I gulped.

And she did. I heard about some stupid sporty event. She told me what her father was doing. She explained how she was making a tater-tot dish and sweet chili. I closed my eyes and let her words wash over me. Finally, I mustered the strength to tell her that her tater-tot recipe was wrong and that I don't care about sports. I could feel her smiling through the phone. "You're back!" she chirped. I didn't dare tell her about how I almost ate an abandoned bagel...she would have thrown a complete fit and demanded I drive home immediately. 

As I headed over to visit with my mom, my truck filled with senseless sales items, I reflected on my self-destructive experience. Why...whenever Brad Mosiman leaves...do I turn into a complete (shopping) basket case? And the more important question:  What role did the bagel play in this, not-so-well-rounded and definitely NOT wholesome, day? I sure felt crumby by the end of it. Maybe I do need some therapy to help me with my emotional bagel-age.