She stands in line at the grocery store. Her hair newly done. Blond and in a rich lady poof. Her nails shining with a recent shellac. An expensive, orange leather wallet delicately held in her hands. It is the only dash of color to be found amongst her attire. The rest of her covered from head to toe in expensive black fabrics of some kind or another. Maybe wool. The expensive kind. Or mink. Or maybe even mountain lion, but probably not judging from the entire cart of cat food that she wheels closer to the cash register in front of her.
Her eyes dodge and dash from side to side, almost as if she doesn't want to be seen buying so much food for so many cats. Nobody wants to be tagged as the crazy cat lady. She is angry that the maid called in sick today due to the snow storm and now here she is, stuck at the grocery store, in her small mountain town, with the truth. She is the lonely cat lady.
How did cat ladies get such a bad wrap anyway? What is so wrong with caring for a collection of helpless sentient beings who need warm roofs over their heads. It's a spiritual practice for her, relating to her animals. They don't judge, she cares for them almost better than she cares for herself. And she feels as if she is giving back in some way. But how could she ever explain that to her fellow widows and divorces when they ask what the most meaningful part of her day is? Is she really supposed to say, "Well, what really means the most to me is having the ability to open up a fresh can of Fancy Feast for my each of my 12 cats and have the knowledge that I am contributing to the lives of less fortunate beings."
Luckily for her secret identity, the conversations with her fellow widows and divorces never broach meaning. Instead her Chardonnay filled luncheons with her "friends" never grow past empty gossip. Maybe that's why she's so lonely. Oh that word. Lonely. A word she's always felt, but never spoken. Rich women don't get lonely. They have everything. They talk about the poor lonely souls that have to work during the Christmas season, and can't even afford a tree. The lonely people like the waitress she shifted her eyes away from at the grocery store today when she was over come with shame, another word she refuses to admit that she feels, at the contents of her grocery cart. The overflowing Fancy Feast, Kitty Litter, and Cat Nip.
Oh that waitress. She's the one at the restaurant that always asks all those questions. Those meaningful questions that are so socially inappropriate. Like, "Have you had a nice day today?" "What have you been up to?" "Is your family coming into town for Christmas?" So intrusive, really.
And then, there she stands, that damned waitress-- at the grocery store, like a goon, trying to make eye contact and say hello, waving like a maniac, drawing more and more attention as the seconds pass! As if the two of them have some kind of friendship. The audacity.
All of a sudden, hit with a tornado of catastrophic thoughts, the cat lady has to get out of there, she considers leaving the cart and letting the cats go hungry for the night. Thoughts of immediately firing her maid for negligence of household responsibilities turn into a panicked realization that her beloved afternoon Chardonnay binge at the only upscale restaurant in her small mountain town will have to come to an end because small town gossip is inevitable. Her identity wil be leaked within a matter of moments. You know cell phone these days. She wouldn't be surprised if this waitress has already snapped a photo of the cat paraphernalia filled shopping cart on her smart phone (Gd knows how she pays for it with a job like that) and posted it to the world wide web. She might as well rename herself Cat Lady.
In a nervous fit, and sure that the waitress is stationed in the same place she was a few minutes ago, still frantically waiving, she yanks her cart out of line and in an attempt to abandon ship and make a run for her Bentley in the parking lot, she shoves it to the side as she begins to run. "No one de-friends someone who drives a Bentley," she tells her self, as horrific images of flyer's filled with images of her behind a cat food filled grocery cart stapled to trees flash through her mind. Only to run smack dab into the person she is desperately trying to avoid.
The waitress. "Oh! I didn't see you here!" She says. "You've come into the restaurant a few times, haven't you? I always enjoy serving you so much. I always notice what beautiful clothes you wear, and your orange wallet. It's always your only burst of color. So chic."
Stunned. And still trying to maintain her composure from her anxiety attack, she manages to muster a smile.
The waitress continues.
"Isn't this snow storm horrible? I could barely get out to restock my hamster food. I have 12 of them at home. I know it sounds silly, but they bring me so much joy. Oh forgive me, I'm so rude. I didn't even introduce you. This is my best friend from high school Jenny, she's been away studying to be a veterinarian and just came back into town. I was so excited to see her, I was waiving like a fool for what felt like 5 straight minutes, trying to get her attention in this crowded store. Anyway, sorry to talk your ear off, I'd love to say I'll see you soon at the restaurant, but I can't stand the social schmoozing that goes on there, so I quit, but Merry Christmas!"
