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AdvertisementAt my bestI needed exactly three things from the store--not exactly worth changing out of my weekend home project attire of ratty jeans and holey T-shirt. And, I sure wasn't going to do anything more than put a baseball cap over my ponytail and maybe apply some lip gloss on the way out of the door. And yet, the moment I walked through the automatic sliding glass doors of the local mega-mart, I saw two co-workers, a member of my church, and three Farm Bureau contacts. How is it that when I look like a refugee from a natural disaster I see nearly everyone I know? It's happened to all of us one time or another. You were just going to pop into the grocery store on your way back to the corn field from the elevator. And there's the neighborhood Stepford Wife in the frozen foods section--sneering at your sweaty, harvest-grime-covered blue jeans and your shopping cart filled with a frozen lasagna and "heat-n-eat" garlic bread. Like she'd be caught dead outside of her home in anything other than neatly pressed slacks and perfectly coifed hair, or, even more horrifying--buying pre-packaged dinner for her family. Maybe, you were just going to stop by the hardware store for some paint thinner and a second gallon of "Basic Apartment Beige," so no need to change out of the paint-splattered T-shirt. And then you spy the cute neighbor from the apartment next door in the power tools section, and you pray you can hide behind the aisle endcap long enough for him to miss you in all of your home improvement glory. But, Fate steps in, he sees you, and together you end up having a 20-minute conversation about painting techniques while he surreptitiously eyes the blob of primer that you missed wiping off of your cheek. Name the public embarrassment, and I can guarantee I've been there. It's not that I'm uncomfortable in public without four layers of make up and every hair in place. Nothing could be further from the truth, actually. It's just that life sometimes supercedes the use of a curling iron or mascara before I leave the house. And so, I propose a few radical changes in our etiquette manuals. So, if you happen to see your friend in the discount store and she looks like she just survived a hurricane, don't judge. Someday you too may own a house with 100-year-old plumbing. It may decide to revolt on you all at once, causing a small "water incident" in your house. And you may need to go to the store for a new mop, monkey wrench and plunger, while not looking exactly up to code. If you see a co-worker at the garden supply center, with a cart full of new bedding plants, wearing muddy jeans, clumps of dirt in her hair, and a frightening expression, have pity. Because, someday your dog may decide the freshly planted rows of marigolds in your yard were intruders that needed destroyed. Further, he may think you want to play tag when you go to discipline him, therefore running into the neighbor's new koi pond in a fit of doggy humor. And, you may have to go to the store a little wilted yourself. If you happen to be out in the early morning hours, and you spy the neighbor down the road in her bathrobe and curlers, as she runs after the big yellow school bus waving a brown paper bag, try not to laugh. One day, you too may have a child who can't seem to remember his lunch and a bus driver who never looks in his rearview mirror. Most importantly, say you happen to be in a residential neighborhood in Dodge City on a Saturday morning. And you see someone in a High Plains Journal baseball cap--who sort of reminds you of someone you think you know from somewhere--who looks like she's locked herself out of her house in her pajamas. She's fumbling around on her front porch for her hide-a-key, while juggling a mug of coffee, the paper, and her dog's leash. And, maybe she happens to splash hot coffee all over the front of her sweatshirt and onto her fuzzy K-State slippers and she lets loose a stream of new vocabulary choices. Well, don't worry--just smile and wave. It's only me, at my best, as usual. Jennifer M. Latzke can be reached by phone at 620-227-1807, or by e-mail at jlatzke@hpj.com. Advertisement
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