Sunday, I violated not only one of God’s commandments, but one of my own: Thou shalt not go to Wal-Mart on the Sabbath. But it had to be done. We were out of Cheetos.
Usually when I darken the door of Wal-Mart in the middle of the week, I’m all dolled up in a pair of paint splattered cut-offs, a faded Old Navy tank top, flip flops, no makeup and a ponytail. I like to accessorize my look not with stylish earrings – that’s too expected for someone as trendy as moi – but with a toddler on my hip for a bit of whimsy. Since it was Sunday and I had been to church earlier in the day, I had on a dab of makeup and my hair had been recently washed. And I was minus a kid attached to my thighs like a bad pair of leggings. So, yeah, I was looking pretty good for me.
After selecting the least disgustingly filthy cart, I gave it a perfunctory Clorox swabbing and then headed into the store in task-mode ready to get the goods and get out of there. I stood near the entrance by the cookies, reviewing my list and making a mental plan of attack.
As I was going over my list, I felt someone looking at me. I felt it on my neck. I felt eyeballs on my neck. I lifted just my eyes from my list to see a young guy, maybe 24, clad in cowboy attire complete with Stetson, standing by the roasted chickens. Staring at me. I looked behind me to see whom it was that might have captured his attention, expecting to find a 20-something Carrie Underwood look-alike. No Carrie, just icky Wal-Mart cookies.
I looked back to my list and I felt the eyeballs again. He was still there. Still staring. I was still a little sensitive from my recent McDonald’s experience, so I checked my blouse to make sure it was buttoned.
Gawking cowboy or not, I had stuff to do, so I headed into the store — towards him but only because he was standing between me and my Cheetos. As I walked in his direction, he nervously strode off towards the ladies clothing, but unfortunately, he was still looking at me when he walked into a rounder of clothes. The last I saw of him was two cowboy boots sticking out from under a rack of ugly flame-stitched sweaters.
Is it really an ego boost when you’re turning heads in Wal-Mart? But then again, at my age, you take what you can get.