Confession

So today in Trader Joe’s I was in the check-out line, having a fun conversation with the checker and bagger, two guys my sons’ age, about a band they are in and music they like. They were stuffing my mishmosh of reusable bags with pita chips and snap peas and too many items involving dark chocolate to name, when I happened to glance at the woman behind me who was unloading her own reusables.

Hers were beautiful and elegant. They were some kind of rough-textured, handmade weave in a mix of blooming colors, with natural canvas handles. And they all matched.

I coveted those bags. I wanted them BAD.

Not that my bags aren’t dear to my heart. I tend to pick them up when I am on vacation or at an event, so they remind me of places and people. The Nature Conservancy one has a panda on it, the Tahiti-floral is from the beach, the mossy camouflage-looking one I got in San Francisco. I had always thought of them as funky and fun.

That is, until I saw the coordinated set in line behind me. They seemed so chic. They looked pulled-together, and fairly traded. These were the reusables of an organized woman, one who probably made a list for Trader Joe’s that actually contained most of the items that found their way into her cart. (I usually go into the store with a list of fifteen items, and come out with three times fifteen. Most of them contain chocolate.)

And I felt inferior. And then almost immediately I felt silly, because here I was, doing something good for the world by not consuming plastic bags, and here she was, doing something good for the world, and who cared if her reusables were prettier? How shallow of me.

So I turned around and said, “Those are beautiful bags.”

I expected to see the woman who fit the bags—slim white jeans, pressed fitted shirt, high heeled sandals, manicured toes, great hair and sunglasses. Instead I was facing a tiny twinkly-eyed, white-haired lady who was rummaging through her purse (which did not match the bags).

“Thank you honey,” she said. “They were a gift from my niece.”

Then she held out a Canadian penny. “Look at this! Don’t know where I got it.”

I took the coin. Canadian pennies, with the profile of Queen Elizabeth, have always struck me as elegant. I said that, and the woman pressed the penny into my palm and folded my fingers over it.

“You take it,” she said. “Maybe it’s lucky.”

By that time I felt lucky. Lucky to be having fun conversations, lucky to be the recipient of a sweet gesture, lucky to be buying chocolate. Even lucky to have my mishmosh of bags. I walked to the car, waiting for other surprises the day might bring, and thinking happy thoughts about a chance encounter with a lovely lady.

Yes, a lovely lovely lady.

But I still want her bags.