Epiphanies on Aisle 10

At the end of my freshman year of college, I discarded an over-size, down-filled, tomato-red winter coat that my mother had purchased on a half price sale. Her rationale? I could grow into it. However, I felt like Ralphie from A Christmas Story whenever I put it on--at eighteen, it was certainly not freshman-year-chic. I threw it on the DI pile in our dorm and returned to my apartment, sure that this coat and I would never cross paths again. Unfortunately, my mom was coming to visit that day. She saw the coat, recognized it, retrieved it, scolded me, and gave it to my pregnant sister who couldn't zip up her winter coat anymore. A small sacrifice for being rid of the atrocity.

But the coat returned. While visiting my sister over the holidays, she far-too-exuberantly realized that my winter coat wouldn't budge once the zipper hit the the underside of my pregnant belly. Opening the closet, she unveiled the solution: my cast-off winter coat. I knew we didn't have the money to buy anything new, so I gratefully took the coat and wore it on the plane home...and I've worn it almost everyday since. It's still large and red, and it served as a catalyst to gaining a better love and sense of where I am in life.

Enter a grocery store, a song, and a search for toothpaste. While I was standing in aisle 10, comparing toothpaste in order to find the cheapest non-fluorinated kind, wearing the large tres unfashionable coat, sporting no make-up, swinging my ponytail, and feeling aggravated at the pregnancy/weather-induced acne-like rash developing over my entire chin...and spreading (really--that's why I can't use fluoride toothpaste right now; my skin is reacting to it by making my chin look like a awkward fourteen-year-old's), I heard the familiar refrains of a David Grey song. You know, the type of song we used to listen to when we were young college students and wanted to drive late at night and talk. I recalled how independent and mature I felt in those moments.

With this thought I saw my eighteen-year-old self approach me from the front of the aisle. I stood frozen with two tubes of toothpaste in either hand and awaited the assault. She comprehended the entire scenario at a glance and grimaced slightly. Our conversation was brief:

She: What have you done to me?

I: It's called perioral dermatitis. The doctor said it was caused by hormones, weather, fair skin, and fluoride.

She: And the coat?

I: It's cold, and we don't have the money for something more stylish.

She: Since when did you pinch pennies over toothpaste?

I: Since my husband started graduate school.

She: Does he play the guitar and have a brooding aspect to him?

I: Not really. He's an engineer.

She: Do you still drive around at night when you want to relax and chat with someone?

I: We don't have a car...

She: Are you happy?

I (with a smile): Yes. Very.

And I am. I doubt that girl who tossed away the coat would have willingly walked into this future had she caught a glimpse at 18. But her definition of being mature was skewed--it's more than just being able to stay out late or drive around with a friend simply because we could.

She vanished, the final chords of the song played, and I picked the cheapest toothpaste. At the other end of the aisle, my husband started walking towards me. Grabbing my hand, he looked down at me, not at the chin, and asked, "Are you ready?" I slid my fingers between his, nodded, and headed for the check-out aisle, hoping that we'd still make budget this week despite the toothpaste.