In and Out

“Love is staying when everything says ‘go.'”

Man, I hate that stinky quote. This one’s not much better:

“Say, are those greens from the garden?”

That’s what I almost asked musician Corey Harris when I saw him at Whole Foods in 2004. Luckily, I chickened out. He was standing next to me in the produce department, loading a bag with kale. His CD, “Greens from the Garden,” was in my car stereo.

Frigging Whole Foods. Celebrity sightings are almost unavoidable there. Earlier this year, I was doing some weekend shopping with my daughter. She handed me a sheath of dry spaghetti that turned out to be open at one end. The contents fell like pick-up sticks around my feet—and also around John Grisham’s.  “A Time to Spill…” was on the tip of my tongue as I watched his Italian shoes flee down the aisle.

I saw a woman at Whole Foods yesterday who isn’t famous, but who easily could be for acting out those creepy comedy-tragedy faces that embellish theater programs. I’d popped into the grocery to grab a pack of nitrate-free hot dogs, and ran into the woman-as-Comedy en route to the meat department. She was by the vacuum-packed salmon, standing cheek to gills with a man she clearly knew. They whispered and snickered, their entwined bodies filling the fish department with wood-smoked heat.  A few customers joined me in browsing too long, remembering when.

But true to form, the hot coals cooled fast. On my way to check out, I darted back to the produce department to get some parsley. And there I found the same woman again. Only this time, she was Tragedy, by the lemons. She’d actually backtracked to the entrance of the store. She was in tears, bereft. The corners of her mouth pulled toward the earth. A female friend offered comfort as she sobbed. I felt bad for the woman, and considered buying her a $12 scoop of lavender bath salts, but figured the gesture would be too communal even for Whole Foods.

Maybe the guy in seafood had once been her man, but as of recently, no more.  Maybe she’d fooled him, along with all of us fool rubberneckers. Pride is the best thespian.

I’ve been there. And so has Kelly Clarkson.

Oh you think that you know me, know me
That’s why I’m leaving you lonely, lonely
‘Cause baby you don’t know a thing about me
You don’t know a thing about me.

–Mr. Know it All

The bummer is: he does know a thing. He knows everything. That’s why lovers end up laugh-crying at the grocery in front of a bunch of nosy hot dog shoppers.

Without judgement, hear this: I once watched an episode of “Designing Women” on public access. In it, a lead character is left by her husband. He returns home to retrieve an item, and she bends over backwards to show that she’s fine, that she’s pursuing new interests. When her ex comments, “Those things don’t sound like you,” her response (Kelly Clarkson) is, “Oh, you don’t know a thing about me.” He gets the last laugh. “Mary Jo, I’ve seen you on the pot.”

The truth is, I don’t know a thing about the woman I saw, or what’s happening in her life.  It’s not like I even shop at Whole Foods that much. The store and I were together for a long time, but ultimately, finances drove us apart. I’ll always remember the asparagus and Gruyère ravioli, but a $5 can of tomatoes is unforgivable. I just get my hot dogs and get out.