Walmart, Irony and Me

A few days ago, I had some time on my hands while Mom was having her "feet done." Women of her generation would never refer to the experience as a pedicure. To do so would  make it sound indulgent and self-gratifying.

She didn't survive the Great Depression, spend thousands of hours stooped over in the garden, butcher her own chickens or fill 500 fruit jars each and every summer to spend her hard-earned money to have someone clip her toenails.

Or did she?

 I didn't need groceries. My gas tank was full. I wasn't in the mood to shop in either of the two decorating stores (a form of torture I save for when I deem myself in need of a good flogging). I could have spent the time reading or taking a brisk walk, I suppose.

Instead, I went to Walmart.

Wandering through the aisles, I managed to find several items to satisfy a couple levels of Maslow's hierarchy of needs. At least, that's what it looked like from the surface.

 I bought these

For Mom.

And this

For me.

Rounding out my purchases,

A book about the spiritual connection between women and food and a bag of candy.



Sometimes a simple trip to Walmart offers an insight into my inner life. And it's really not that simple.

Or is it?

Perhaps instead of reading books, eating candy and spraying lethal chemicals, I should be writing, feeding others and pulling weeds.

Like Mom did.