Half-remembered

I bought a bottle of wine at the grocery store today. A serviceable Australian Shiraz; nothing very interesting. As it rode down the conveyor belt toward the cashier, I automatically pulled out my driver's license and held it up for her. I am obviously over 40, so she snickered quietly to herself while looking at me as though I was maybe just a little off. There was an obvious internal debate as to whether she should humor me and look at it or pretend it, and I were invisible.

In New York, they ID everyone.

After 9 months of living mostly there, I'm no longer befuddled by the sea of New York license plates though I'll confess to continued bemusement over grape pie.

None of this is what I set out to write about, though. What I wanted to write about was how this living two different lives in two different places leads to half-memories. In particular, I am often confused about who I know, and where I know them (given that I've moved a lot in the course of my life, this shouldn't be a surprise, really).

Spring semester has just ended, and I'm back in Michigan for a few days before I need to attend a conference, then spend some time cleaning up the aftermath of the semester. I'm working on regaining my momitude, which isn't as easy as it sounds. One of the chores that falls into this is grocery shopping. For what it's worth, I don't love grocery shopping. It's a chore, whether I'm doing it in Michigan or New York.

Nevertheless, I'm in the store, staring at the root vegetables. Plotting. A woman with a slight, shuffling step walks by and I think "oh, its...no. This is Michigan." She is, in fact, a total stranger with Laura's walk. I keep staring at the turnips, parsnips and leeks. For just a moment, I am lost in place.