"It's me," I said, halting in the Home Depot exit as sirens blared around me.
"I know," the chubby security guard replied. "May I see your receipt?"
"It's me," I said again, digging in the plastic bag for the receipt for the little bottle of Schultzes I'd bought for my starving plants.
"I know," he said again, looking at me in bovine placidity.
A man in Ralph Lauren casual, carrying a small bag of his own, tries to pass.
"Sir," said the guard, "Could I see your receipt?"
"It's me," I said, yet again.
"I KNOW," he said, leaning heavily on the KNOW, as the siren continued its shriek.
"Not him, ME. I keep setting off alarms, see? Operation...heart... metal bit...scalpel left-in maybe? Do you want to see the scar?"
"Hmmm," he said thoughtfully, then whisked his hand at us both in dismissal, "Just get away from the alarm, will ya?"
And I slithered out the door behind the bewildered man who'd stumbled into my latest dragnet.
I could give you a rundown of alarms set off since my release from the hospital (see: I did say this blog is tangentially about flowers). Around Christmas there was Macy's, Nordstrom, Ann Taylor. J. Crew was the best, or the worst, with a most dazzling scream.
One would think someone would check to see what might be stuffed in my jacket, my purse, my shopping bag.
But the young things in charge register about as much concern about me and what I'm up to as they would for some sweet and somewhat dottty old aunt. In each case I approach whoever looks managerial and explain: Operation...heart...metal bit...scalpel left-in maybe? Do you want to see the scar? At least look in my bag?"
And they smile their little smiles and shake their fluffy heads, "It's quite alright dear. Of course you're fine. Don't worry."
This is frigging insulting. Where did my persona go, that inner thug that I've groomed and primped and decked in black has gone all ...mumsy? Bah. I want to kick them in their skinny shins.
And with a sweet and somewhat patronizing smile I'm brushed along. Damn. I could be making out like a bandit.