Yes, I know I’m a bit late, but my personal moment of female solidarity happened on March 10th. Sometimes I feel that the tales I tell on this blog are a little “cynical”, so this is a fairly nice story to renew your faith in human nature…It starts badly, though.
After my last gynecologist’s visit last week, I was warned in no uncertain terms: slow down and DO NOT lift anything heavier than a toothbrush if you wish to avoid a very premature birth. This was sufficiently scary advice to make me take note, but it’s much easier said than done when you have an 18-month old to look after.
Anyway.
Today I popped into the supermarket to pick up a few things, and one thing led to another (as it does) and I ended up buying quite a lot. But that’s OK, I thought, because I can just borrow the shop’s handy little trolley to wheel my things to the car, then return the trolley. They won’t mind.
Won’t mind??
“Madame!” barked the sour-faced cashier, “You are not allowed to cross this line with your trolley. Put it back, please.”
Unfazed, I smiled sweetly and pointed out my fairly round stomach.
“Could I just borrow the trolley? I’ll bring it straight back. I’m not supposed to carry anything, you see…”
“No. It’s not my fault, but it’s not allowed. Please put the trolley back.”
I couldn’t believe she wasn’t going to make an exception. Quickly, my mind scanned the options available to me: 1/ Cry; 2/ Shout.
Neither seemed very viable, considering that I am a 31-year-old woman who tries to be respectable (although the crying option was almost inevitable: I was on the brink already…).
“Well, that’s not very nice…” I mourned sorrowfully after a while.
The cashier continued to scowl in that semi-bored “it’s not my problem” sort of way.
At that point, my guardian angel stepped in.
A lovely, kind woman who was next in line reached over and patted my arm.
“Don’t worry,” she soothed. “I’ll carry everything to the car for you. Just hang on while I pay for my things.”
“Oh! But… I don’t want to bother you…” I exclaimed, reddening (my usual, instinctive attitude, as we know).
But the lovely lady just smiled again and told me to wait for her.
Since my other options appeared to total zero, I waited.
The lovely lady then proceeded to heave my bag onto her shoulder, along with her own two bags, and set off smiling (and panting) towards the car park, with me in tow.
I thanked her profusely for most of the 5-minute walk (it’s a big car park), but she continued to smile serenely and assure me it was no trouble.
“I have a child too,” she grinned. “I know what it’s like.”
When we got to the car, she asked where she should put the bag: in the boot or on the back seat, so it would be easier for me to remove later.
When finally the good deed was over, I thanked her again, feeling tears prick at the corners of my eyes. Maybe it was the pregnancy hormones, but maybe not: after all, it’s not every day someone does you such a selfless good turn.
The footnote to this story is that of course, there were about 20 stocky men standing in line behind me in the supermarket queue, and not one of them stepped forward to help. My guardian angel came from the sisterhood of women who’ve been there before… and know what it’s all about.
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