"Our God, Teach Us To Smile"

 I know we anti-maskers are supposed to flaunt toothy grins. But when I shop, I just want to get out and not invite any extra attention. 

If I see an employee coming toward me my glare automatically sets in. "Don't mess with me," I want to yell. Or maybe cry? 

I'm not really rebellious. Just stubbornly uncomfortable. 

And then the employee often drops their mask and smiles. "Need any help, ma'am?"

Then shame hits me. It's all I can do to hide my tears. "Yeah. Do you all have any eggplant?" 

It's odd how at ease I am eavesdropping in other people's homes. And that I get paid on top of it. Ah, but I've been so tired these days. Not sure why I clean anymore. I don't really like money this much. In fact, do I like the money? No. I think I do because I want to be free from the burden of poverty. And yet, I'm still enslaved. I want time, not money. Time to write, read, sleep. 

And eat. I never eat while I clean. Maybe that's why I'm always faint and moody at the end of a day when I return to my own messy home. 

Again I clean, dreaming of time to eat and sleep. Sometimes I just go to bed leaving my stomach empty and my house filthy. But I have money. 

* * * 

"She jumped on me for saying our God, saying it was a pagan reference to Asgard." 

I don't remember who told me this, except that I stared at them wondering what I should do. Oh, yes. A joke had just been told. My brain registered why this was funny. Finally, a chuckle came forth. I'm sure that my face gave way that I had just got what was said. But then who knows? I can't remember the full story or who was saying it, just that I was standing in front of my stove, staring, exhausted. 

Today I am cleaning my client's stove, listening to Neil Gaiman's Norse Mythology. Thus the memory.

There's this giant who is neither male nor female. Characters like this stump me. So what are you? When I imagine such characters, they always end up having more masculine attributes and physiques. After all, what else do we have for the basest form for humanity but man? Woman was created next, thus she is more. If we are all honest, I think we all must view genderless characters as predominately male. 

And now my thoughts have distracted me from an important element of the story. I back the audio up.  

I always leave one earbud dangling just in case a client needs me. But it also allows me to pause my audiobook and listen in chance a conversation may fascinate.

Somebody rings the doorbell, delivering something. (I often only hear what happens, rarely seeing. I've got good at visualizing sounds)

"My wife says I need to wear a mask to accept the delivery?" My client says. 

The delivery man says, "Hey. It's your house." 

"Yeah! I almost told her to tell you all to just deliver later." 

"Ha. I don't like the masks either."

"I don't wear them if I can help it."

"I'm going to take mine off, too." They shuffle around, joke, mock the masks. 

"My wife always tries to make me wear them, too." 

The thought saddens me. Why women, whenever we have even a little power, must we use it so extremely wrong? My heart aches for men who are bound to such women. My heart fears that I might become such a woman. A woman who is a burden to her husband, not a joy. Whose husband speaks of her as some harsh, cruel master.

"I saw this little, old lady and she told me, 'You don't need to be wearing that.'" The delivery man says. 

I swallow a laugh; never let your clients know you aren't listening to the one earbud. 

Why is it whenever we speak of little old ladies, they are always, besides old, also little? Will I someday be a little old lady that speaks truth to set men free? Ah, but such women were first young. How did they use their power THEN? Maybe I'm not doomed to be such a woman whose man says, "How unfortunate I am!" 

When the conversation ends I don't return to my Norse Mythology. 

Instead, I think that I must go to the grocery store soon and brave the world of men and women wearing masks. But maybe I'm not so anxious. How many of the men I see will have been forced to follow the crowd by wives? How many of the wives are simply doing so because they are scared and don't want to cause a scene? Maybe I can just pretend the world is fine. I really want to make kiwi jelly and I have no jars. 

But I sit in my car for a few minutes, not overly excited to go inside. When I do get out, I follow a crowd. Their faces aren't covered. Maybe . . . but no, right before going in, masks come out of their pockets. 

An elderly man is exiting. There isn't room for two through the doors. I just want to get in and out that I nearly squeeze past him. My brain . . . I can't think. But no. Before I would have stepped to the side. I do so, not allowing panic to control me. I'm glad because he turns to me and smiles with his eyes. "Thank you, young lady." 

I remember to breathe and smile. How wonderful to be doing these as I walk in, things I always forget to do even though I never wear a mask. 

And as I walk in, Town 'n Country feels different. Is it my smile?  Maybe . . . ah, the faces! So many full faces. I relax. As I find what I need, I find myself able to watch people like I used to do. There are still many masks. But even those seem worn rather half-heartedly. How many noses there are! 

An employee is standing on a shelf, stocking a higher shelf. I nearly laugh, seeing myself for a moment, too lazy to get a ladder and fully capable without one, yet sure to attract many stares. I approach her slowly so as not to frighten her and make her stumble backward. 

"Excuse me. Do you know if there are any canning jars here?" 

She stares at me for a long time. Oh, no. Maybe she will yell at me. Why is she staring? Or is she thinking? "Over behind the discounted produce." 

"Thank you so much!" 

I get in line to pay behind an old man. Full grey beard around an ornery smile. He's flirting with the purple-headed cashier. He sobers. "When do you think you all will stop wearing masks?" I never thought anyone could ask that question of someone else without sounding obnoxious. He sounds friendly, genuinely concerned. 

The cashier says, "When the county says." 

They both laugh at that. 

"Or when we do," she says. 

The man behind me pulls down his mask. I'm thrilled even as I wonder what his wife would think.

It's my turn. The cashier greets me and I find myself smiling. "Nice shade of purple," I say. 

"Thanks! I just dyed it!" 

She takes my bags of mushrooms and apples. "Looks like you checked out our discounted shelf." 

"Yeah! I was looking for canning jars." I hand her those, too.

We keep talking like once before upon a time when I didn't mind shopping so much. When people were fun to interact with. She's fun to interact with. I leave laughing, smiling, not ashamed, very hopeful. 

I hurry home, get my kiwi jelly into the jars and water bath them. I want a bath, but all the showers are broken. I'm reminded of our Amish days where I would often just not bathe but wash from a bowl and rag. Sometimes I'd only wash my feet, hands, and face (not in that order). I fill my tub up with pans of water, telling myself, "Only twenty minutes." My jelly needs to be checked. 

Tomorrow is my little sister's birthday. I'm taking her and another sister to a pottery lesson. I'm already so tired. And when I get home I have so many small things to catch up with. I'll be up until midnight. 

I ask Jerushah to drive. Like anything in Montana, we have a forty-minute car ride. As we pull into the drive I wonder, "Will she ask us to wear masks?" Ugh. To have to turn around after all this would be so annoying. 

She greets us, holding a mask. "Shall I mask up?" 

All three of us girls say, "Oh, no!" 

As we work, she keeps apologizing for needing to itch her nose, and keeps saying, "May I touch your hands? And show you how it's done?" 

Then as we watch, "Don't be afraid to get close in here." 

The poor lady is only trying to get by in this current crazy world. For two hours, we mold the clay into bowls, vases. My first creation makes me realize just what storytellers mean by genderless. It's less, not neither the basic of basics nor the highest of beauties. It's interesting work. My hands are dried out from cleaning and cooking. It's pleasant working in this sloppy mush, to not worry about masks or people or responsibilities. 

The pottery teacher says, "One can just lose themselves in this work."

Yes. 

Maybe people aren't that rebellious and stubborn. But they sure do get exhausted. And we all know that the exhausted aren't only ready for sleep . . . they are prepped to dream. 

"Our God who art in Heaven. Keep our hearts gentle and soft as we battle nagging Karens. Show us how to be all you made us to be; don't let us settle for less, becoming inferior, void creatures. And teach us to smile once more." 

*For the month of April, I'm going to be sharing literary pieces on COVID. I never meant to write on the subject again. but turns out my heart is still full of things that must be shared.