Danielle Goes to a Food Bank

So a month or so ago, I reached a pinnacle in my unintentional quest for humility. I needed to go to the grocery store but I had spent my last few dollars putting gas in my car the day before. I probably could have asked my parents for money but felt that they had already helped me out so much with paying bills I was behind in paying, I just couldn't ask again.

I decided it was time to do a little research on food banks in my area. Yes, you heard me, food banks. Here I am, with two degrees in my pocket, a couple thousand dollars worth of theology books sitting in my boyfriend's basement, research papers out the wazoo, and $80,000.00 to prove it, yet I had to go to a food bank the other day. It was really odd. Not only was I embarrassed to go to the food bank, I was embarrassed that I was embarrassed!

First off, I didn't know what I should wear to the food bank. I mean, I haven't gone clothes shopping in a LONG time. And when I do, I usually shop at Target or discount stores. However, I dress nicely and I take care of myself. Most of the time I wear red lipstick and a flower in my hair. But preparing for a trip to the food bank presented a conundrum I had not faced thus far in my adult life. Should I dress down? Skip the make up and the flat iron? Skip my bangle bracelets? I had this strange urge to make myself look deserving of the free food. As if looking nice would disqualify me. I decided I was being silly so I just wore a typical outfit I would wear and groomed myself in the way I do every day, and I left.

When I got there, I had to fill out some paper work and explain my income situation. I told them I didn't have any! But that is only partially true. I mean my boyfriend gives me money when I need it. He buys food and other necessities too. He is also taking on the rent, utilities, and household expenses. Should I have told the food bank that? I wanted to, but I felt like charity = religion and religion = rules, and rules = no cohabitating with boyfriends after you graduate from seminary. So I didn't tell them.

I finished filling out the paperwork and then the woman pointed me in the direction of a skinny hipster dude with tattoos who was a volunteer. He went to a storage room and filled four grocery bags with what I presumed to be some much needed staples. I got my bags of groceries, thanked the hipster volunteer guy, and in the split second that our eyes met, I secretly wanted to let him know that I had a Masters degree. I wanted to tell him that I was educated, smart, resourceful, independent, and not "needy" or "poor." But the heavy bags of clanging canned goods told me to shut the "@#$&" up.

So I walked to my car with my head held high, put my groceries in the passenger seat and began examining their contents. Two cans of tuna, peanut butter, jelly, canned corn, canned beans, canned mandarin oranges, pasta, a bag of frozen chicken nuggets, and a box of milk. Yes, I said a box of milk. I thought to myself, "Boy Danielle, you have really hit rock bottom. Canned fruits and vegetables? What's next? 250 thread count sheets???" I consoled myself with mantras of "It's only temporary" visualizations of the produce section of Whole Foods, and set off to look for jobs in my neighborhood.

I live in the South Side of Pittsburgh. The main drag is known for bars, coffee shops, ma & pa shops, restaurants of all kinds, and artsy establishments. It's probably not a row where I'd find my life's work, but maybe something to hold me over until the perfect job comes. Much of the offerings were off limits to me because I am allergic to cigarette smoke, and Pennsylvania hasn't gotten the memo yet that smoking is deadly so you can still smoke in most bars. I walked past a salon that was hiring a "Guest Relations Manager." Translation: a minimum wage job taking appointments, sweeping up hair, greeting customers, and looking perfect. I figured I'd try to apply for that one because then I could possibly get free hair cuts and colors, and that would be great! And I'd also get a good deal on shampoo that didn't come from a grocery store, perk number two! The only problem was that I have about an inch and a half of salt and pepper roots pushing my Chocolate Cherry silk out of the way. I certainly couldn't apply for such a job with my hair being in that state! So I decided to stop hitting the pavement and went home to cook dinner with my food bank goodies.

Yum!

And the adventure continues...