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Illustration by Alex Deadman-Wylie
I don’t like shopping. Not because of the skyrocketing prices, although that makes it worse. No, I don’t like everything that goes into it: the lines, the parking strategies, the search for elbow room.
For me, grocery shopping means long waits at a medical clinic, bad coffee in a church basement, semi-trucks on the highway.
But as my husband says, “everyone's gotta eat.” And so I go.
I enter every store with one mission: rush in, grab what we need, and rush out.
The problem is that I can't rush back and forth on Saturday. That's the day my elderly mother and I go shopping together.
My mother is a vivacious 85-year-old with a penchant for outspokenness. Before she goes out, she applies lipstick, a touch of blush and a glow of character.
She has had a driver's license for decades but has never driven, so in the early years, she would go shopping with my father. Then it was my older brothers' turn. Then it was mine. It was the least we could do considering she was cooking for a family of five.
Since moving to Mississauga with my husband over a decade ago, I started driving to Toronto to visit him every Saturday, and our shopping excursions have evolved from there.
It made sense.
But it wasn't always a walk in the park.
My mother and I have different attitudes towards shopping.
I run around like I'm under a stopwatch. I catch, I throw, I maneuver.
My mother walks around and watches.
When we arrive, she unwittingly parks her cart in the middle of traffic to study the sales flyer. I watch as customers and staff squeeze past her or are forced to take a detour.
As I wander around looking for items to check off my list, I leave her, say, in the produce section. And that's where I find her half an hour later, looking intense, studying zucchini like she's Alan Turing trying to crack the Enigma code.
Shopping is also a great opportunity for my mother to observe people. Let the comments guide you.
“Look at all the groceries in this guy’s cart.”
“Is this woman wearing pajamas?”
“Did you comb your hair this morning?”
My mother's keen observation skills towards her only daughter are also fully demonstrated during the races.
“It was on sale last week,” she said, looking at an item in my cart. “Why didn’t you buy it then?”
Sometimes she remains silent and simply grimaces at my choices or their displayed prices.
And she still insists on checking out the prepared food section – not to make a purchase but for entertainment.
“They think I'm going to pay that For that” she asks, to no one in particular. I can do it for half the price.”
Every Saturday, mother-daughter shopping also involves an elaborate game of hide-and-seek that we had no intention of playing. At one point, I can no longer locate her. Where has she gone? I circle the aisles and aisles.
“Have you seen my mother?” I want to ask the clerks and delicatessen employees I meet.
After frustratingly circling the store twice without seeing her, I imagine putting up a missing person poster on the front doors: “If you see this woman, please don’t call!”
On several occasions I found her waiting at the entrance of the store or in my car.
“Where have you been?” I ask, exasperated.
My mother shakes her in disappointment. “Where were You?”
And then there is the dilemma: are we finally going to leave? My mother invariably announces that she is ready to go and we head to the checkout.
But something draws her. It could be the broccoli crown sale or the discount laundry detergent pyramid. As she heads toward it, I sigh. Don’t do this, I told myself. Please don’t leave. That’s what we all think when the main character in a cheesy horror movie heads toward the dark, menacing basement.
But she does. She goes.
Now that I’ve reached middle age, I’m starting to reflect on those mother-daughter Saturday adventures at the supermarket. My mother has started to slow down. She tires more easily. Her aches and pains are more pronounced. The arthritis in her hands makes sewing, a hobby she once loved, a laborious process.
She has been a widow for three years, and although she is known for her independence and resilience, I can sometimes hear her sadness over the phone. Winters are the hardest. She feels cooped up and restless. But when the weather permits, she takes the bus to a nearby square just to get out of the house, she tells me.
For my mother, shopping is an outing. An opportunity to see and be seen.
I'll never look forward to shopping. But I appreciate why she does it.
I realize that our excursions are not endless. One day, I will wander alone through the grocery store, eager to find her wandering down an aisle or studying the produce section.
For now, I'm grateful that I still have time to work on my patience and understanding.
Saturday is almost here.
When I pull into her driveway, I know she'll be ready for me and a new adventure.
Rita Simonetta lives in Mississauga.
