The Kona Adventure, Part 6 - The Big Box Store-y

An update, then a store-y. Kristen's ob/gyn (see yesterday's post, if you haven't) admitted her to the hospital yesterday afternoon. Supposedly she'll be going to Denver today - the doctor down there cancelled her appointment because of road conditions yesterday. The snow has stopped, but the radio says the roads are very icy down there. So we'll see what develops. She told me last night that she'll be making her home in her hospital bed for the duration of this pregnancy - days, weeks. She's already tired of t.v.! Only the Lord knows what is ahead. Thank you for your prayers. We cherish them.

Today is our actual anniversary. We will go out tonight and probably talk about the early celebration in Paradise. No fabulous pictures today - just a quick story to get my mind on something amusing. It is so cold and has been so stressful since we returned that I often have to go back to Hawaii in my mind. I will indeed be sharing more pictures, though, as the days go by.

The play on words is because the setting for this story is in W*l-M*rt, which I call a Big Box Store. Ten years ago when we were in Kona, W*l-M*rt and McD were the only evidence of big business on the island. This time we were pretty sad to see not only WM, but L0we's, C0stco, Super K-M*art, and every form of fast food. The good news is that they situate the big box stores so that you have to know where they are to find them. They are well hidden up on hills, behind foliage. But they are busy!

So - back to the store-y. I had fallen into the ocean (just barely), wrenched my knee and ankle, had blood and mud all over my pants and shirt (from a lava rock-slit finger), and was of course soaking wet. My shoes and socks were squishing. We stayed several miles above town in the mountains, so didn't want to make a trip back up there mid-day. I told DC I needed to go to WM to buy something to wear.

I hobbled into the shoe department, where there was hardly anything but flip-flops (called thongs in a previous generation!), which I cannot tolerate between my toes. I finally found a pair of simple sandals. I picked up a couple of pairs of capris (or pedal pushers or clam diggers or whatever you call them), a t-shirt, and headed to the little room with the mirrors that make you look even worse than you already do. I really hate shopping and trying on clothes. Add sprained ankles and knees and it was a really delightful experience.

Woe is me, the first pair didn't fit. Yikes, how could it be possible that this size didn't fit?? I stuck my nose out the door and asked the young woman in charge to please page DC for me. She spoke very poor English, and managed to mangle his name on the PA system. Turns out he was standing right there, but I didn't see him. He brought me some more clothes with which to torture my self-esteem.

Finally I found a passable fit with both top and bottom. I wadded up all the soiled and soaked clothes and shoes, headed out the door of the fitting room with the new clothes on, tags and all, and said, "Okay, here's the deal. I hurt myself badly, my clothes are soaked, I need to wear these things out of the store, so can you help me work that out?" Just then I realized that at least six women were standing there in a semi-circle, holding clothes over their arms, waiting for a vacant spot to torture themselves with the "trying on clothes" process.

There were lots of funny little smiles on their faces as the young woman finally located someone to take me to a check-out spot. Fortunately for me, she took me to someone close by and I didn't have to struggle all the way to the front and stand in line with hundreds of people looking on. I still had quite an audience, though, as she cut off the price tags, scanned them, bagged up my wet clothes, took my money, and sent me on my limping way.

I don't have a picture of myself - Dwight did take a video of me sitting on a rock in this pathetic condition. My camera was ruined. A very well hidden blessing!

I want to thank you all again for your prayers for me at this embarrassing, frustrating, painful time. He truly did touch me during that night and I was able to enjoy the rest of the time there, though moving slowly and carefully.

TO BE CONTINUED . . .