I left the house to do two errands today, looking forward to the light brushes with strangers, the eye contact, and banal conversations. The meaningless rituals of life’s movement to center stage give the people populating such encounters great power. Today’s brushes brought me close to tears.

First, I was caught off guard by a Sephora employee’s stern scolding: She said by touching a Jo Malone bottle, I’d ruined it. “No sampling is currently allowed! Now I can’t sell it. Are you buying this?”. I was stunned by her voice’s animosity but unwilling to entertain ideas of buying a pricey fragrance in response to being shamed. As I left, I saw her disinfecting the bottle and returning it to the shelf.

Licking my wounds back in the car, I drove to my 2nd errand—a small, specialty grocer. Leaving the car across the street with the blinkers on, I ran in to buy a steak and some bacon. It’s an upscale place so you order from a butcher who lovingly selects and cuts your meat. It was far too loving and I fought back a request to hurry. Before I turned around to pay, I realized my mask wasn’t even on. Pulling it up, I turned to place my meat, beautifully tied in twine, on the counter while digging for a credit card. The young man about to ring me up said “Hi”.
Too distracted by the prospect of a ticket for pleasantries, I remained silent.
“You’re not going to say hi OR wear your mask properly?”. A hot stare followed.
It was surreal to find myself standing in deeply wounded silence for the 2nd time in under 90 minutes.

I mumbled something about being distracted because of my parking choice. He looked contrite and issued a genuine-sounding apology.
It’s been hours since this happened and I still feel raw. I’m sitting at home in a posture of pity.

Honest to God, I don’t think I’ve been so fragile since childhood when a classmate could shatter my world with a mildly offensive reference to my shortcomings. Or an unfavorable comparison of my dog’s behavior with theirs (our black lab once ran onto the field during a school baseball game and resisted capture for eternity. I felt deeply then that Shelby’s field excursion reflected something very shameful in me.

The lockdown has pushed back the clock. I’m a babe with no emotional armor and I must fight the regression.

I’m a grown woman. With good qualities. For one thing, I’m nice.

One of mid-adulthood’s best features is the falling away of those delicate sensibilities that bring so much misery in youth. The violent ups and downs are now mild hills and flat terrain. Misunderstandings that used to turn into complete, existential crises, are just misunderstandings.
If you’ve seen Gigi, Maurice Chevalier’s “I’m Glad I’m Not Young Anymore” expresses the sentiment quite well:
“The Fountain of Youth is dull as paint
Methuselah is my patron saint
I’ve never been so comfortable before
Oh, I’m so glad that I’m not young anymore”

I want to return to being a 40-year-old who doesn’t stare at the ground when spoken to sharply. Mid-adulthood has its merits.

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