Front lines

TROY, Michigan, 8 a.m. — Cover me. I’m going in.

With all of the gumption I could muster before my second cup of coffee this morning, I headed out to the front lines.

Compared with first responders and health care professionals – the real troops fighting this battle on the front lines – my assigned duty was small potatoes.

Yet in these uncertain times when a night out means sweeping the garage with the door closed, I have to say that today I took one for the team.

Or, as my commanding officer said: “You’re going to Kroger to shop for us since you’re not 60 yet.”

And I don’t mean for 15 items or less, which actually should read “fewer” not “less” if you prefer grammatically correct English.

Don’t get me wrong. I love grocery shopping. Always have. For me, it has often been a morale booster and relatively inexpensive form of therapy.

This was particularly true when I was still working doing double duty and losing what was left of my mind. Food shopping, and walking up and down each aisle — Trader Joe’s in Royal Oak was my store of choice back then — helped me gain perspective and escape the madness, for a little while.

We have control over so few things in life, but at that moment I was in charge. For real. Not as an editor, partner, sister or friend. Just me. If I want to buy Jarlsberg cheese and not Brie or pepper jack, then you can’t make me, see? Not while I’m food shopping.

Today was not that day.

I had my marching orders and a grocery list as long as Al Capone’s rap sheet, listing everything from avocados to Martha White muffins and zinc.

And dozens of store coupons, which is normally my job, thank you. The commander was still clipping them last night during “60 Minutes.” Woman, have you no decency?

Our plan of attack was simple: Get in and get out, quickly and efficiently.

Now is not the time to wander the aisles, as I’ve been known to do. Occasionally. OK, mostly all the time.

Go early, sanitize the cart and practice social distancing. No chit-chatting with Joe the nice produce man. Don’t touch my face or anybody else’s.

As of March 29, the USDA noted that there was “no evidence of food or food packaging being associated with transmission of COVID-19.” A day later, I’m wondering if that still holds true.

Regardless, street smarts are what matter most on this battlefield. According to the Los Angeles Times, their own test kitchen assistants have practiced “smart” supermarket shopping for years, including:

1. Plan meals ahead of time.
2. Make a list of everything you need according to where the items are located in the store and how they’re organized in the cart.
3. Choose smart substitutes for stuff you can’t find.
4. Do it all as quickly as possible.
5. Bring a pen to cross off items as you find them.
6. P.S. See #4.

Armed with my list, it was time to go after this bad boy, while maintaining a safe 6 feet of social distancing. The store even had courtesy signs posted. “Stay the hell away from our customers.” (Kidding.)

Awkward stares from other shoppers were enough for me to keep out of their line of fire. In the cereal aisle, I paused to check my list and immediately got the stink eye from the same guy I’d passed in condiments.

On to checkout. I had so much in my shopping cart that I had to intermittently load the conveyor belt between smiles and small talk with the cashier.

Her name was Zara, and she wore latex gloves but no protective mask because she was behind a plexiglass partition the size of a basketball hoops backboard.

That’s right. A sneeze guard for cashiers. My mind wandered to the reason I don’t care for salad bars.

I asked how she was holding up. “Oh, pretty good, you know? I am not afraid of anything, you know? Not a virus, you know? Maybe God.”

Yeah, no kidding. I know. “And just to be clear, I’m not hoarding Martha White muffins,” I said.

Her bagger Krista wore a pink cap, pastel yellow mask and teal gloves. She looked like a human Easter egg.

“Thanks for talking to us,” she said. “Most people don’t.”

I paid with my credit card, careful not to touch the chip machine.

“Have a nice day,” I said. “Stay safe.”

Loading up the car, I looked around the parking lot. There were empty spaces and few people. I even returned my cart to the pen because I’m a rule follower. Then I took off my gloves and sanitized my hands in the car.

Get a grip, Jennifer. Just don’t touch anything.

I pulled into our driveway wishing I hadn’t bought so much and wondered how we were going to get it all inside. Rebecca had prepared a “cleansing table” in the garage, so we could empty bags, sanitize items and then bring germ-free stuff into the house.

Clutching our cherished container of Clorox wipes, Rebecca disinfected all items before bringing them into the house. I removed Triscuits and Wheat Thins from their cardboard boxes, she sanitized the clear bags and put them in the pantry.

Some of the nonperishable food remains in the garage for at least three days or until chipmunks eat it, as suggested by some medical doctor from Grand Rapids, Michigan. Rebecca says we should be completely comfortable taking advice from a stranger on a viral YouTube video.

I’ll drink to that.

Meanwhile, Maddie periodically sniffs at the back door wondering why she smells Martha White blueberry muffin mix coming from a table in the garage where mom’s car used to be.