Martha, Market Basket, and a Gold Lamé Thong

I had thought about writing about something serious today, but decided I didn’t really feel like it. Besides, it’s a snow day. Most—if not all—of the schools in the state have canceled classes today, and many local districts have already called it for tomorrow, too.

One of the local churches even canceled bingo for tomorrow night. And if that doesn’t say we have a lot of snow, nothing does.

Instead, I’m going to write about 83-year-old strippers in Market Basket.

And now I’ve caught your interest.

Maybe I’ll just ramble on for a few paragraphs and then end without telling the story. Then you’d have to come back!

Okay. I won’t do that.

A few years ago, I was shopping at the local Market Basket. I’m not a regular—mainly because weird things happen to me when I shop there.

Market Basket seems to have an odd assortment of characters. This is by no means a criticism; it’s just an observation.

This one time, I had finished my shopping and was standing in line. Finally, after what felt like two and a half days, I was next.

In front of me was an 83-year-old woman named Martha. I know this only because she told me. As the cashier rang up her purchases, Martha closely watched the prices and her total.

Suddenly, she turned to me and said, “If prices keep going up, I’m going to need to get a job. But I don’t know who would hire me.”

I nodded and commiserated with her. Prices were going up, and I couldn’t imagine how tough things must be for someone on a fixed income.

Martha nodded in agreement and said she’d been thinking about stripping. She figured she could make good tips and work minimal hours.

Not knowing what to say, I just smiled and nodded. (I’m not often speechless, but what does one say to an 83-year-old woman who has just revealed plans to become a stripper? If you’ve got a snappy response, I’d love to hear it.)

She went on to say she thought she was onto something—that she could don a gold lamé thong and shake her money-makers. Martha said all of this with a completely straight face, so I honestly wasn’t sure if she was serious.

Part of me thought, You go, Martha!
The other part of me wondered if there was an audience for an 83-year-old stripper.

Eventually, Martha finished checking out, and since my mother raised me to be polite, I wished her good luck in her future endeavors.

As the cashier started ringing up my items, I glanced at the guy behind me and said, “Wow.”

He replied, “Yeah. Been there. Seen that.”

At that point, I was thinking, What the hell is happening?

And before I could respond to the been-there-seen-that guy, the fire alarm went off. Managers began telling people to leave their carts and calmly walk to the exits.

Thankfully, the cashier continued ringing up my order and let me check out—which was a relief, because I’m not sure I could have reentered the store and stood in line again.

I haven’t been back to Market Basket since. I’m still recovering from that last trip. After all, who knows what I might hear—or see—the next time I decide to shop there?

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