Harder for a Rich Man

Today marks day eight of staying home. I take a walk nearly every day, grade papers, bake something nice, clean out a drawer, check in with family and friends. I placed my first Insta-cart order, which is a lovely option if you have a credit card and lots of patience.

Photo by Bernard Hermant on Unsplash

Ten days, two weeks, three weeks ago, I didn’t panic shop. I spent my regular grocery budget on regular-sized weekly shopping trips, though I did buy an extra tub of dishwasher detergent and extra hand soap. A couple of extra cans of refried beans. I read in the news and our community Facebook group about bare shelves in the toilet paper aisle, and I had my own private tug-of-war over whether to panic buy or stay on budget. About ten days ago, the panicky me pulled out my credit card and made an early morning trip to the grocery store. I spent my regular weekly amount, but I shopped a week ahead of the coming paycheck. The next day, our governor closed the schools and the shopping locusts swarmed.

In my community page on Facebook, there are now several posts a day reporting which store does or doesn’t have toilet paper. A few days ago, an employee from one of those stores posted a request that people not announce when TP is back in stock, please, because then people rush in and buy everything in a short time. One woman rejoiced that she’d come into the store just as they were stocking the shelves and she’d scored a case of toilet paper. 

On that same community Facebook group, a young mother posted that she’d finally gotten paid and had gone to get much-needed groceries, but the shelves were bare and she wasn’t able to get much. Another woman posted that she, too, had waited for a paycheck before shopping: she’d needed formula and wipes, but there were none to be had. Replies came almost immediately with recommendations to check with this or that charity, even offers from individuals saying they had extra and could drop off or leave items out on their porch for pick up. 

That kind of community spirit initially makes you feel like we’re really rallying and helping one another. But when you think a little harder, you realize that the folks like me with the credit card and the cupboard space were essentially snatching groceries away from those who had to wait until payday. 

My daughter Ashley is a senior at University of New Mexico, living off campus and finishing the semester online. Her boyfriend of three and a half years is an ER paramedic. One of her roommates is a nurse. Their household of four is down to their last four or five rolls of toilet paper, Ashley told me last night. They usually wouldn’t think about getting more until they were down to two rolls, but she’s probably going to walk to the store on Tuesday or Wednesday in hopes of finding TP and disinfectant. They have no stockpile because they have no extra space. 

If you’re still going to the grocery store these days, please remember that there’s someone coming in behind you who just got paid. Think of the college student walking to the store for disinfectant because her boyfriend needs the car to get to and from his twelve-hour shifts at the emergency room. 

Photo by Ozgu Ozden on Unsplash

When you see the last three bottles of painkiller on the shelf and you’d intended to buy just one—do you go ahead and grab all three because there might not be more tomorrow or at least you’ll have them share when someone you know runs out? I’m speaking to myself now even as I’m speaking to you. Leave the bottles on the shelf. Buy one if you have to, but don’t buy all that remains. Leave some for the next person and trust that they, too, will take only what they need. 

All of us can shop with dignity.