Death by shopping

A friend blanched the other day when I told her I had gone into a garden centre. “I would never do that,” she said, a quick flick of the eye indicating she was making sure she was at least six feet away from me. I defended myself: “Well, I didn’t touch anything, and there were hardly any people there.”

What strange times these are. Shopping – the lifeblood of capitalism, the beloved, venerated hobby of many – has transformed itself within weeks into a dangerous, questionable exercise. For the old and the immune-compromised, picking up a jug of milk and a few tomatoes is being seen as tantamount to a dance with death. Adult children beg their parents not to set foot in stores; neighbours and volunteer agencies offer to take on the job for them.

Many of my friends say people have offered to shop for them, but they’re hanging on to this little piece of independence – “for now.” I haven’t had any such offers, but I’d probably react the same way. Shopping is a personal thing – the shade of green bananas you like, for example, and whether the broccoli wiggles limply under your fingers or has a nice snappish feel. How scared – how convinced – do you have to be to turn the job over to someone else?

Now the handling of those supplies when you get home is becoming just as fraught as the shopping itself. Videos are circulating warning that the virus lasts on plastic bags for days, and prescribing elaborate measures for thwarting it. Bananas, oranges, apples and avocados must go into soapy water for a good scrubbing. Boxes must be quarantined away for the appropriate number of days. I do not know the legitimacy of any of these warnings; I haven’t seen them addressed by any official agency. But they add to the uncertainty that has turned the most banal of activities into a passage into fear.

Aside from the dangerous escapade of entering a garden centre (to check for vegetable seeds in hopes of reducing future trips to the grocery store), I am restricting my shopping to once a week. No more dropping in every day or two to pick up something missing or check for the right kind of bread.  At 7 a.m. on Friday– seniors’ hour at Stong’s, with hopefully hardly anyone there – I will put my life on the line once again.

This is what shopping in coronavirus times really looks like, in contrast to John's lighthearted video at the start of this entry. The reality is waiting in a lineup in early-morning drizzle to just get into the store, then deciding to double up on everything to delay the next shop as long as possible. Even though Stong's controlled entry to the store, its narrow aisles made it difficult for customers to stay the proper distance apart. Not the breezy in-and-out venture I had so blithely predicted the night before. Photo and video by John Denniston.