Grocery shopping is Jess-time. The boy is usually coasting on the fumes of an early morning cup and has beat a retreat to the Coffee Counter for Cranky Boys. Which allows me briefly out from under the Shadow of Supervision.
I naturally take this opportunity to assert my dominance over the locals. I coast the aisles propped on my Steed of Terror, its wheels protesting. I upbraid the lunch meats. Sing to the commercials. Send toddlers into fits of giggles or tears depending on their tolerance for crossed eyes and bared teeth. I growl behind the backs of old ladies and then smile winningly as I pass them by, ensuring madness.
I am Great and Terrible and Trivial. And am unmatched except for the rare instances when I occasion upon an old college professor. At which point I run shivering and blubbering to hide among the toothbrushes.
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