the yogurt aisle

This day has thus far been one of the strangest of my life. Talk to the me that existed a year ago, and this would all have been second nature; getting on a bus, riding to town, browsing around stores. Today it all seemed, for lack of a better adjective, wrong. I found myself feeling shocked when a bus showed up on schedule and mildly surprised when there were enough seats that we each got our own. Sure, people were friendly, but no one was grabbing my arms as I passed, and I didn't receive a single marriage proposal in the hour it took to get into town. Everywhere I looked there were electric things flashing their lights, but I couldn't for the life of me hear the throb of the generators I was sure had to be powering it all.

I think it was the yogurt that really clinched it for me. We wandered from Ikea over to what turned out to be a mall, one half of which was taken up by a store that's probably the Spanish version of Wal-Mart. It sold everything from groceries to power tools, and glaring red signs pointed to LOW PRICES! around every corner. The first aisle we turned down was the yogurt aisle.

I was standing there, flanked on both sides by displays of yogurt reaching from the floor to above my head. We were surrounded by every brand you can imagine, so many that I'd never even heard of. Flavors like kiwi and coconut camped out alongside the more traditional vanilla and strawberry. The yogurt came in plastic cups, in bottles, in little tubes, in jars. It was fat-free and calorie-reduced and anti-aging and pro-biotic. I stood there, frozen, in the middle of all this yogurt, my fingers clenched in Phil's sleeve, afraid that if I moved or breathed I would get lost forever in this world that no longer seems to be my own. It seems like the stupidest thing I've ever said, but right then, I was scared of all that yogurt.

I mean, it wasn't just the yogurt. It was everything. It was the sheer number of choices presented to me in that place. The sight of goods displayed on shelves and behind glass. The fact that everyone was wearing a full set of clothes, right down to the two matching shoes on their feet. The ATM machine that spit out money when I asked it to (as I glanced furtively over my shoulder to make sure no one noticed me with what felt like a fortune in my hands). The cars in the parking lot sporting shiny paint and smooth windshields and nothing painted across their back bumpers.

We circled around that store for what seemed like forever while I fought the urge to scream or cry or sit down in the middle of the floor with my head buried in my knees. I bumped into people over and over, (having lived in a world without personal space for eleven months, I couldn't get the hang of it again) and couldn't find the words to excuse myself. I kept wanting to blurt out Sorry, yeah? and just have someone, anyone tell me It's alright. You alright. No ma, yeah? As we came to the exit, I made a decision. I tugged Phil's sleeve, and we headed back to the yogurt.

I picked out a little tub of vanilla, one that comes with a side-order strawberries that you can mix in. I stood in line by myself at the register, got into a mildly-traumatizing mix-up when I tried to pay with a credit card (because apparently a driver's license doesn't count as ID here), and I bought my yogurt.

It tasted good. Really good, actually. I ate it feeling for all the world like a baby who's just taken her first steps.

The only problem is that this isn't the world I want to be walking in.