I’m so sorry, sir — did I just crush your foot? I don’t know how that happened. I’m not even sure how I got here, to be honest. Today is Mother’s Day — my day! A day just for me!

I don’t know why I’ve woken up in this Costco. The last thing I remember is breaking up a ninth consecutive fight over Duck Tales — wooOOOooo — and suddenly, I was floating over my own body, looking at the breakfast they brought me spilled all over my bed. I saw peanut butter in my hair. I thought I looked tired.

And then, I simply drifted away. My mind only just rejoined my body a moment ago when someone shouted, “Look where you’re going, lady!” and boom, here I was, white-knuckling this shopping cart.

I can’t see a damn thing around this baby grand piano I somehow shoved in there. I didn’t know I could lift a baby grand, let alone cram one between six pairs of tummy-control ankle pants, a 24-pack of cranium-sized blueberry muffins, and two potted azaleas.

Did you know they even sold baby grand pianos here? Stacked to the ceiling in a big ol’ bin. I should have asked for help — I almost squished myself — but I didn’t want to bother anyone. I didn’t want to interact with another human ever again. All I know is when I saw that gleaming tower of pianos, I thought about how I used to play. A little Chopin, a little Joplin — Scott, not Janis. I was never that cool.

But my hands used to do things other than unwrapping snacks, once.

That’s probably why I’ve woken up in a Costco instead of, say, a day spa, or a fancy restaurant, or a beach resort in a non-extradition country. Because, Mother’s Day or not, we are always always somehow out of snacks.

I’m pretty sure my kids haven’t even noticed I’m gone. In fact, no one has asked me for a damn thing for — let me check my watch —
27 minutes!

Dear God, this is like Shangri-La.

Would you like a muffin? I have extra. And is your foot okay? I’ve got two Ace bandages, some Dermaplast, and at least a half-box of band-aids somewhere in this shoulder anvil I’m carrying. So if you need anything — no? Well, that’s fucking refreshing. This really feels like a holiday!

Yes, of course, I have my insurance information with me. I’m so sorry I almost crushed you with this stupid goddamn piano. For a moment, I just wondered if I could have a different life. Maybe I don’t hear music that isn’t KidzBop or PinkFong because we need a piano, you know? When you’re playing piano, you can’t hold snacks or glitter or snails you found in the backyard and named Mr. Stinkyslime, right?

I’m really asking.

Anyway. I really appreciate you listening to me while I read you my State Farm policy number and coverage limits. You haven’t interrupted me once to say you’ve peed on something. What a magical morning this has turned out to be.

Seeing as you’re still hobbling a little and you’ve got two flatbed carts of your own there, is there any way I could sneak in front of you to check out? I’m wondering if I could sneak in a trip to wander aimlessly through Target before I need to skedaddle back to the ranch.

Shit. Ranch. We’re almost out, and they won’t eat their veggies without it. I’ve got to head on back to the condiment vat aisle before I leave.

Maybe I’ll pick up one of those bottles of bourbon-aged maple syrup while I’m back there. I mean, I’ll have to share it. I won’t probably get more than a tablespoon or two to myself on half a toddler-rejected pancake, or maybe licked off a stuffed animal at some point.

But I can buy it, and no one can tell me not to, because somehow, I’m here all alone. Dissociating in this Costco. On Mother’s Day.

A day that’s just for me.