The Pond

I was in the check-out line at the market yesterday chatting with Glenn, my cashier, not to be confused with Shane; tall, dark handsome college student cashier. Glenn was filling my green ec0-bags with the usual fare: oranges, bananas, two tubs of Turkey Hill ice cream. It was buy one, get one free, I had no choice, when the woman next to me said, "Do you wash those regularly?"

"Excuse me?" I said.

"Those bags, do you wash them?"

"Why no, I've never washed..."

"I saw a show where they carry so much bacteria you would not believe," she said, "I think they put them under some kind of scanner or something and..."

"Oh dear," I said, "Well, probably if you put me under some kind of scanner," I mumbled, "you'd find all kinds of things."

I was trying to be funny. Or change the subject. But she carried on with how she had to be careful because her husband had muse syndrome and things needed to be very clean. Muse syndrome? I should've asked her to spell it. But Glenn was being pokey with the bagging, so I stepped up and nestled my ice cream, butter pecan & chocolate chip cookie dough, in my green-eco, apparently bacteria riddled bag, and high-tailed it out of there. Sorry, Glenn, she's all yours.

I will not be washing my green bags today, or anything else. We're heading up the mountain to go jump in the pond. I'm going to strip my clothes off and let the minnows nibble on my toes. And keep my eye out for the sleek, black water snake that likes to glide along the edge where the forget-me-nots grow. And then later, chow down on a bowl of ice cream, while sitting in the grass, most likely tick-ridden, and give thanks for this beautiful August day, and for being alive.