Talking to my potatoes

& other grocery store friends

Welcome to Getting Better! This is where I invite you to stop doom-scrolling, and to delight instead in a personal narrative essay. Then (and only then), get off your device and live your life. Subscribe for free weekly pieces or upgrade to support my work. So glad you’re here 🥰

I had a friend in college who couldn’t hold a conversation around mirrors.

She’d seem to lose track of any train of thought the moment she captured a glimpse of herself.

All of a sudden, I no longer existed; it was just the two of them together in the room. Her sentences trailed off and her replies became scattered — less fully considered or formed than when she was really with me.

I’m only being a little bit dramatic.

It’s not like she literally ignored me or forgot I was there. But I am convinced that’s only because she has a high EQ. She knew to engage with me enough that it forced us both into pretending nothing had changed — like she still cared more about our conversation than admiring her features.

But I’d always catch her sneaking glimpses at herself in the mirror over my shoulder, adjusting her angles based on what she saw and liked, or didn’t.

This drove me crazy.

I remember thinking it was incredibly rude and feeling shocked at her lack of awareness or consideration — that she’d pivot to address only herself while I was then forced to pretend this conversation was still worth my full investment.

Finding myself relegated to the role of Prop. A decided downgrade from Peer.

I was visiting my brother’s family a few years ago, when my oldest niece was somewhere between 3 and 4.

She wanted a bite of my food and came over to ask politely — as is her custom. She looked down at our feet and said, Aunt Miriam, may I please have a bite of your noodles? (I am always blown away by any child’s use of may I — it makes me feel like I’m the elegant aunt in a Jane Austen novel, and living that fantasy is enough for me to give up anything at all of mine that a child might ask for.)

Before I could reply Yes of COURSE you may have my noodles, and my engagement ring, too, if you like it!!!, her mother reminded her to make eye contact when asking a question.

I remember this coming as a surprise to me — was her may I please not enough?! Was the eye contact really necessary?

Then she looked right up at me and asked again. She looked at me with her full, warm, hopeful light brown eyes and asked for a bite of my noodles. And my heart became one giant noodle that was all hers.

Yes, the eye contact was necessary. I was so grateful for this moment of connection with my niece, even if artificially bolstered by my possession of the coveted noodles.

I am pathetic and shameless and desperate for every child’s love so now make it a point to eat lots of yummy food around her.

You’d like a bite of my cheesy, warm pizza, would you? And how do you ask?

The fearlessness of a child’s eye contact. Me with my mom & my Abuela, circa…1996?

Ever since then, I’ve noticed all the eye contact I don’t make and how uncomfortable I am when I do try to make it.

It’s cringe-worthy.

A few months ago, I’m checking out at the grocery store and Ryan is manning the checkout. Ryan is the kindest soul and we’ve gotten to know each other a bit over these seasons, what with my baby choosing to adopt my husband’s voracious appetite.

Ryan and his girlfriend met at work and they’re moving in together soon — a house in Maplewood. He loves his job because he’s treated well and has surprisingly wonderful benefits. He comes by to say hello to my baby if he spots us across the store and isn’t busy manning checkout.

I really like Ryan — I feel like we’ve gotten past surface level “busy day today, huh?” back and forths, and I’ve come to look for him whenever we go to the store.

But I didn’t know what Ryan’s eyes looked like until this particular day, after making a conscious effort to look him in the eye. As if this were a big show of courage; as if he’s a grizzly bear who will interpret my eye contact as a direct threat and, consequently, jump out from behind the till to attack me and my sweet babe.

I had a particularly big bounty this day after my husband and baby had ravaged the fridge and pantry, My produce rolled lazily along the conveyor belt, leaving me lots of time to catch up with Ryan.

Only, I didn’t really catch up with Ryan. I downloaded new details from his life as I caught up with the produce.

I found myself asking the watermelon about its upcoming trip to Europe, telling the potatoes about my baby’s love of the harmonica, and wishing the asparagus luck with the Maplewood move.

I addressed dozens of inanimate objects before I dared look Ryan in the eye.

At least my college friend was addressing someone, even if it was only herself. Here I was choosing to speak to produce rather than the human being in front me, because of a discomfort I don’t remember picking up at some point in life while hiding behind a screen.

When I finally did look up at him, it brought our connection to life. He has beautiful, blue eyes behind his thick glasses. His smile is sort of crooked and uncertain, like his teeth and his nose. His gaze feels eager to be met, as I found it ready to meet my own when I looked up.

There’s something so kind in his raised brows — a genuine eagerness to get along. He asks my baby who his favorite musician is, and his eyes flit back and forth between my baby’s as he tries to come up with a name that might make my little one smile.

I love these things about Ryan.

I love to see him care enough to try with us, and I love to meet him in that caring.

It feels so strange and silly, if I think about it or write about it for too long. But it’s not at all.

It’s so wonderful to meet someone in the moment — or wherever our mutual gaze exists. We may discover a thousand unspoken words about a shared past, or a mutual recognition that the present moment sucks but we’re in this together, or a hopeful hint at a possible shared future.

Creating that mutual recognition in the present makes life feel more complete, more manageable. We’re not so alone in making sense of everything.

When Ryan tells me about his upcoming trip to Europe with his girlfriend, and I meet his gaze as he tells me about it, I see his hope that his girlfriend and his family in Europe will all get along. And I hope for that for him, too.

When I tell him about my baby’s newfound love of peekaboo, I’d like to think he sees my hope for my baby to meet more kind people in the world, and that he hopes for that for my baby, too.

That he decides to be that kind person.

But maybe Ryan thinks I’m crazy and he dreads I may be coming onto him with all this direct eye contact.

Maybe every time I walk into the store, he thinks to himself, Oh God, I’ll just need to talk about my girlfriend the whole time this time. Maybe she’ll finally get the hint.

And he is trying desperately to communicate with me: Please stop staring at me like that. You’re scaring me.

And that version of reality is hilarious.

So either way, the eye contact? Totally worth it.