No Escape

Standing in the middle of a battlefield, objects fly at me in every direction. I attempt to block, dodge, or even catch them, but there is no use. I breathe heavily, trying to bring air into my constricted lungs, but there is no use. What do I do? I cannot just leave; I would have no way to return home or escape to a safer, less chaotic place. So I must tolerate being used as a moving target. This is what it is like shopping with my mother.

The first thing to expect when going shopping with my mother is: be prepared to move at rapid speeds. While I follow her with the shopping cart, we move as if a man dressed in an expensive, fancy suit will be waiting at the checkout lane to reward her for having the world record shopping time. I receive props for not hitting or injuring anyone in the aisles, which is always an amazing accomplishment, especially for me. My mother, a woman on a mission, constantly reminds that we “are not there to dilly-dally”.

“We need to just get in, buy what we need, and then get out”, my mom tells me in a serious, stern voice. But I always want to gaze at and enjoy all the clothes and electronics at Wal-Mart; she would not allow it. I never have time to blink or ponder as we rush down the aisles like the champions at the Indy 500. Good thing someone knows where we are going!

The only shopping experience more dreadful than Wal-Mart is Hobby Lobby. Since my mother crochets various little critters that poop Skittles out their butts (yes, you heard me right), yarn is a necessity. Not only do I have to worry about the fast-paced movement, but now I must be prepared for airborne yarn balls approaching my head. As we draw near the aisle, that painful fear rises to my head and I know what comes next. The yarn is on sale. Those five words, fingernails on a chalkboard to my ears, race into my brain persuading me to loosen my grip on the shopping cart and run for my life, but I know I must proceed. When I pull myself and the cart to the side of the aisle, my mother is released from her cage and the frenzy begins. The poor little old women looking diligently at each yarn to choose the best for their knitted scarves become terrified as yarn soars past their heads at high velocities. Struggling to catch them with all my effort, my mother behaves like a rabid wolf in the winter having found the last morsel of meat. After this fast-paced, terror-stricken incident, we begin to head toward the checkout lane. It involves a great effort to keep all of the overflowing yarn balls inside the shopping cart, but I somehow manage. Customers gaze at us in a daze as if they have never seen a crazy mother and her embarrrassed daughter before.