Balloons

A grocery store in a foreign place is normally set up wrong.  At the very entrance of this one (in my new neighborhood, in this new state) squished into a nook on the right-hand side, is the floral department, complete with helium balloons.  This once annoying fact has now altered the fabric of our family history.  It was here that I bought five colored helium balloons for my youngest son's 11th birthday.

Entering the stupidly arranged store with determination and grit, list in hand, a fateful pause by the strawberries caused the espial of a pretty young girl standing among the mess of flowers, papers, ribbons...and balloons.  She expertly filled a gaudy metallic pillow with magical gas, tied a colored curling ribbon to it, and placed it, floatily, into a group of more sensible, solid-colored, regular balloons.  Well, regular except that they were filled with helium.

A bolt of lightning possibly sent down from heaven suddenly struck my brain and I was drawn, my cart floatily turning, to the girl and her menagerie.  A silly smirk must have been slapped across my face as I asked her the all-squelching question:

     "How much are those balloons?"

     "Two dollars," (for the ugly ones) "and one dollar for these." The lovely gal motioned lithely toward the red balon! (and its amis).

I nearly gasped.  I probably did.  I had never done anything this crazy, this extravagant before--okay, well maybe I have, but...It had never once occurred to me that instead of buying the cheapest balloons I could possibly find, I could actually, gloriously, easily afford to buy--these wonderful, colorful, helium-filled balloons, suspended so happily, with their dangling sparkling curling ribbons!  I must have looked drunk as I stammered,

   "Can I have three?"  I pointed clumsily to a grouping of blue, green, and orange.  As the girl started to nod, I wavered, "No--wait, can I have FIVE?!"

  "Sure, what colors?" she asked, patiently.

  "Um, anything but pink and purple," I blurted, afraid of ruining my chances.

  "Gotcha.  You can go do your shopping while I get them ready.  Here's a ticket so you can pay the cashier." She handed me a stub that said $5.00.

I wandered off nervously, knowing the real risk that I would forget to return for the balloons.  Yes, even after all that.  After passing through three aisles I returned to the balloon counter prematurely. 

   "I was afraid I'd forget," I apologized.

   "No problem," she smiled, "here you go."  She handed me the treasure: five bouncy, colorful, helium-filled balloons--red, orange, blue, green, yellow--wrapped under a huge, thin, translucent bag to keep the beauties from flying away.

I bumbled my way through the rest of the store, not being able to see much around the strange plastic cloud tethered to my cart.  I was not haughty, though, as I passed the aisle where the cheap, blow-'em-up yourself balloons were shelved.  I remembered where I came from, and smiled.  It was a sweet, sweet day at the alien grocery store.