dimenSIONs

I am standing in the grocery store checkout line eyeing the tabloids’ “Britney Spear’s Latest Mental Breakdown!” headlines which are screaming to me in tragic reds and yellows. I have an obsessive compulsive need to organize these racks into pristine little columns of Britney Spears chaos when I notice the woman in line ahead of me. I passed her in an aisle not ten minutes ago. I don’t know what made me take notice of her then, other than that she seems to be about my age, stylish, yet a little punkishly trendy for my tastes wearing black laced up hummeresquely durable army boots which are obediently guarding two dainty little tights-clad feet that probably haven’t seen any more trauma than a good old fashioned Oregon mud puddle. Her hair is pulled back and yet drapes down over her shoulders in clumpy layers some in front of and some behind her thick green wool jacketed shoulders.

I eye her grocery items on the conveyor belt in front of me in the kind of way only a fellow woman-shopper can. “Not too bad!” I muse, “overall fairly healthy items.” I generally pride myself on the overwhelming majority of vegetables to processed foods in my own cart. I consider this a mark of accomplishment. Yes, I head straight for the vegetable aisles and being the thrifty shopper that I am, I aim to spend more time in these aisles where the volume of food purchased versus price paid is double that of the evil processed foods aisles. Ok, perhaps this is merely a matter of my mother coming out in me but the issue here is that her mother seems to be as strongly opinionated about vegetable consumption as mine is and what is more, she, like myself is carrying out this lesson later in life, a time when most of our peers have failed to reap the health benefits of this sometimes less than tasty lesson. I’m not sure there is enough room in this checkout line for two such accomplished healthy food eaters to share the envious stares of less successful healthy food shoppers.

I look up to eye her again. She is nearly done checking out her week’s groceries which form a substantially larger cart full than mine. Hah! She may eat as healthy, but she eats more. One point scored for me. Or perhaps she just has a husband at home to feed as well. Crap! the scale tips uncomfortably back in her favor.

The checker places the last of her grocery items into a paper bag and places it in her cart. Smart I think, using paper. Not only is she healthy but she thinks on behalf of the environment. Score one more point for the pretty, albeit punky my-aged woman in line ahead of me. I catch an underhanded movement out of the corner of my eye as she flips open her wallet and pulls out her plastic payment. She swipes her card before I can even process that payment has begun and the bulk of my groceries are still in my cart. There is a moment of silence, both the woman and the cashier staring blankly at the “Processing” message on the screen in front of them. A moment later she mumbles something about using the wrong pin perhaps and begins shuffling through an envelope popping with crumpled receipts and random currency. The cashier quickly rifles through a stack of scratch paper and slips one through the receipt printer. After eyeing the printed message he silently hands it to the woman who reads it with more than a look of concern or perhaps embarrassment on her face. She turns her plastic over in the palm of her hand reprimanding it with her eyes and continues to shuffle through the envelope.

Her card is an Oregon Trail card which I find interesting. “Don’t they have an exact limit per month on those cards?” I wonder, “How could she not know that she had already reached her limit? Or perhaps they haven’t recharged it yet this month!” I give myself a mental pat on the back for solving this most recent mystery. Then I wonder if I shouldn’t perhaps look into getting one of those cards myself. Outside of the embarrassment of inconsistent disbursement, it wouldn’t be such a bad thing to have. I am currently unemployed (under any other circumstances I would prefer the term self employed). I am a starving artist trying to find my way in a big confusing paycheck-less world. Isn’t that what these cards are for anyway? To help those who are working on the next big thing but haven’t made it through the transitional period yet? I look down at my groceries and try to remember back to my grocery store cashier days. There was a time when I would have been able to calculate very quickly the number of items which qualified for Oregon Trail and the approximate remaining balance for those groceries which did not. Those days are long gone, a seemingly small price to pay for my college degree and a job which paid more than minimum wage. Alas, the days of a well-paying, or any-paying for that matter, job are over as well and the cashier’s job is looking more and more appealing.

As hard as I try to fight them away dark thoughts begin to creep into my mind completely smothering the light of my recently found glimmer of hope that is a supplement to my current non-existent income, at least as far as food purchases are concerned. Think of all the paperwork I would have to fill out to get one of those, not to mention the extra space it would take up in my wallet! I simply cannot abide by another piece of plastic carving out a home in my already burdensome wallet. Perhaps most overwhelming is the feeling of guilt that begins to settle in my chest. How could I possibly justify accepting public aid? I am, after all, unemployed by choice. Although my previous work consisted of a dying market and perhaps a lay-off was inevitable, I still took this leap so that I could selfishly chase long-lost dreams. I am perfectly employable. There is no physical ailment that prevents me from finding a job. There is no mental expectation which I cannot exceed. No, absolutely not! I will not accept aid from other hard working individuals who more likely than not are working unsatisfying jobs themselves in order to make ends meet so that I can chase the dream of finding job fulfillment.

I look up from my thoughts and realize the lane in front of me is empty. The cashier has already begun ringing up my groceries and as I follow her green jacket past the other check stations and out the door I wonder why the woman ahead of me could possibly necessitate an Oregon Trail card. I mean, I’m sure there are many qualifications for needing one and even more reasons for wanting one, but outside of her less than choice taste in clothing she, like me, seemed perfectly employable. There was no noticeable physical or mental impairment (other than an inability to organize and keep track of financial matters judging by the declined payment and month’s worth of crumpled receipts haphazardly thrown in with the remaining funds for the month). How did she find herself in a situation which necessitated financial aid? Did she also choose to pursue a more fulfilling but less then sufficient income providing job? Did she recently lose her job due to a slow economy and find herself unable to locate a new one?

I pull out my membership card and swipe it through the card reader. “Thank you loyal customer!” it responds. A faint smile crosses my face. That was quite the assumption to make. These membership cards are practically force-fed upon first entering this store and many like it. Loyal Customer, huh? That kind of has a ring to it. Why not? Being the loyal customer that I am I follow up my membership card with my trusty debit card. Out of habit I follow the lead of the transaction before me and slightly hold my breath and stare blankly at the screen in front of me which reads, “Processing.” For about half a second I wonder if it also will be declined. Although I know there are plenty of funds in my account to cover this transaction (saved up for just such times as this), I wonder if it were declined would I then be more inclined to apply for public aid?

The cashier smiles at me as he hands me my receipt and places the last of my bags into my cart. One point for me. A cart full of mother-approved healthy foods and paid out of my pocket of hard earned, harder-saved savings. The scale tips winningly in my favor. “Have a wonderful day, Miss Hillebrand!” he calls to me as I follow the footsteps of my predecessor past the row of other cashiers towards the front door.

“You too!” I mumble, as I calculate the limited number of days left before my card too will process a declined response. Perhaps I should apply for that Oregon Trail card after all. As promising as it sounds, I can’t help but think about my reoccurring feelings of frustration with the memory of a gorgeous summer day when after a softball game the team gathered at my house to celebrate with a barbecue. We were baffled to see that the choicest cuts of meat were supplied by the one unemployed member of our group. He had purchased very expensive but deliciously enviable cuts of all organic steak at one of the most consistently expensive whole foods stores in our neighborhood. “How could he afford these?” we wanted to ask, but before we could he volunteered the answer. He had bought them with his food stamps card and wasn’t that sweet? “Totally sweet I think,” with just a little burning anger boiling up inside me, “and totally despicable.

“No, that is one card I will not apply for. Thank the lord I have this opportunity to chase my dreams, but should all not go well, I don’t think I can bring myself to dump the burden of feeding me on society. After all, society owes it to me for being such an upstanding citizen, right? Me thinks not. As long as I have two working arms and legs I will make my own way. I will do what it takes to make my life happy and successful and leave the benefits of social aid to those less fortunate than this unemployed 20-something and those more willing to take advantage of the system than I of which, I am afraid, there are many among us.

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