I’m reading a memoir, it’s great. I might read more, I might write one. I’m not sure what I would include though.

Once, I can’t even remember how old I was, but my mom and I were at Fry’s Marketplace. It was a quick trip, and we got in the 10 items or less lane. I counted and realized we had eleven! I tried to tell my mom, but she wouldn’t listen. Our groceries lay all sprawled out and I counted them again, frantically, hoping to come up with ten.

I tried to tell my mom. “Mom. Mom we have el-ev-en. Moooom. Hey.” I was trying to be discreet, whispering urgently, but she didn’t seem to notice. “Hang on a second, Lisa, I’m going to grab a magazine.”

What? Was she insane? Didn’t she realize we already had ELEVEN? Oh, god. It was getting closer to our turn. I didn’t want to be the one to have to explain what we were doing in this line. Oh, here she comes. Is that…? Oh, my god. She has two magazines.

Now we had THIRTEEN. The lady started scanning. I was dying. Any second, she was going to announce to the whole store that we had thirteen items and we had gotten into the 10 items or less lane. There’s the milk, the dreaded eleventh item, and finally, the magazines. I cringed, bracing myself for the attack. The cashier opened her mouth and … announced the total. Huh. I waited, cautiously, for her to say something else. Nothing. I relaxed. Walked with my mom out of the store. Pretended like we hadn’t just practically broken the law.

That is one of my fondest memories of freaking out for absolutely no reason. You’d think I’d learn, and perhaps these freak outs are not as common as they used to be, maybe one a day, maybe less. Maybe not memoir material.


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