I was getting claustrophobic hanging around the house so much.

Still, after persuading Maria that I would wear my mask and use the alcohol wipes and call in my order first and stay away from other humans, and pick up the food at the curb, she agreed to let me go grocery shopping by myself.

This is a big step, for two weeks or more, I was encouraged – strongly – not to go much of anywhere. Like everyone else in America, this was getting to me.

I’m new to this older man at risk (OMAR) stuff.

I may be imagining things, but most people are very kind to me, as if they are full of sympathy and concern, and am heroic just by stepping outside.  Or, they cross the street when they see me. I sometimes feel like I have a scarlet letter on my back.

If feels a bit schizophrenic. Zinnia is my passport, everybody loves her and talks baby talk to her, which she loves. She is my passport and shield. But most people won’t come near her either.

On top of everything else, I imagine Maria was happy to work peacefully in her studio while I shopped. We get along very well, but I am used to roaming all over the place, and so is she. Neither of us liked to be chained up.

Who does?

Her desire to keep me alive seemed well balanced against her equally powerful desire never to go to the grocery store and spend money and wait in lines. I love you, Ralph, Alice told her unpredictable husband, but don’t push it too far.

I just needed to do something useful again without endangering myself or anybody else.

It wasn’t that easy, of course.

Grocery stores have changed a lot since I was last in one just days ago. You can’t just walk in and buy what you want. There are empty shelves; people masked up like the Mardi Gras, and all sorts of new regulations – limits on buying towel paper, which direction to walk in, plastic screens around the cashiers, orders to keep social distance in the aisles, six-foot-distance warning signs at the check-out.

And forget those reusable bags they’ve been pestering for me to use for years. I finally got one, and they don’t even want me to bring it into the store. In a burst of hubris, I picked up two rolls of towel paper and was nearly run out.

(Okay, you may have figured out that I recently snuck into a grocery store without permission to buy some salmon to cook for Maria. It is her favorite food and was the only thing that kept me alive when she realized I had gone shopping without her, or at all. But not today.)

My Apple Pay App on my iPhone is even more of a sensation and talking point; it’s no longer considered pretentious and annoying, it’s the perfect device for paying without exchanging money or credit cards, or even touching the machine. And it makes the teenager cashiers crazy jealous.

Steve Jobs, I will love you always.

As an OMAR, I could skip all of that stuff now; I can call in during special old-people times, or order online. The people who answered spoke slowly, as if I were deaf and frail, and were a little too sweet. I sometimes think of telling people I’m “at risk,” but it seems crass to do that.

Zinnia was eager to come along, and she can be very handy if I need to sweet talk or charm anybody.

I am the Hunter-Gatherer, and I love to shop, and since Maria hates to shop, she isn’t all that good at it. It was time for me to hunt and gather.

I sat down and wrote out a shopping list. Next time, I’ll just ask my iPhone 11 to decide the list for me and order it.

Then I went online and checked off the things I wanted, and set a pick-up time later the morning, and phoned in my final order.

I pulled in at the arranged time, called in to tell them I was there – was this a kind of valet thing?, I wondered.

In a couple of minutes, a cheerful young woman in a yellow vest named Julie came out pushing a cart on it with a piece of paper that said “Katz,” she peered into the car carefully, as if ready to call an ambulance or get a stretcher.

Julie (not her real name)  looked at her cart list and asked me for my phone number to make sure. Who, I wondered, would steal Diet 7Up and dog treats? And there was the salmon, just in case, I got into trouble.

Per instructions, I had my mask on – she didn’t – and a jar of gel sanitizer right by my fingertips. I hadn’t touched anything, but Maria says I should take no chances. And she’s the type of person who will look at the gell level in the bottle when I got home to make sure I used it. She can smell a lie from 20 yards out.

Zinnia was, of course, wild with joy and rushed to the window, wagging her tail. She understands her function in my life.

Julie practically swooned with love and joy when she saw Zinnia and came rushing to the back window, which was open and only a foot or two from my head in the front seat.

Some people don’t love an OMAR at risk, but everybody loves a dog.

The cell came out in seconds, and she scrolled down to photos of her two dogs, a Lab, and a German Shepherd. She told me all about them, and from a distance of about two feet.

His name was thunder; the other dog was named lightning I felt like I was in trouble already.

I’ve come to tremble a bit when I meet anyone with a cellphone, and Zinnia is around. People love to talk about their dogs, and always have photos.

Julie and Zinnia had a joyous meeting as if they were dear old friends who grew up together.

Julie cooed and cuddled with Zinnia,  there was a river of baby talk and kissing and whining on both sides, Julie took a cell phone photo of Zinnia and was showered with licks, as if she had offered her a fresh marrow bone.

Lord, I whispered, you just met her!

She asked if she could give Zinnia a treat, and  I said, of course – Zinnia and I are like an old carnival or potion selling act by now – and she reached into a plastic bag in her pocket and took out a biscuit.

If Zinnia liked her at first, this cemented their friendship for life and sparked another round of heavy tail wagging, wiggling for joy and more kisses.

I thought Zinnia would hop right out of the car and go off to live with Julie, who so far paid no attention to the cart filled with my painstakingly chosen groceries, just a few feet away. I looked nervously at the cart.

(With call-in grocery ordering, there are no second chances. If you get it wrong the first time, you don’t get it until the next time.)

I cleared my throat, and Julie backed away suddenly as if remembering the six-foot separation warnings on the ground, marking off safe proscribed distances.

Or maybe she saw her boss peering intensely through the glass window at the front of the store.

He didn’t look pleased and showed no apparent interest in Zinnia, a warning sign. I waved to him, and he nodded solemnly back.

I had opened the rear door of my SUV, and Julie moved the cart to the back and told me to stay seated, satisfied, I’m sure that I could never have made it that far on my own.

Zinnia moved to the rear of the back seat, and the two fell in love all over again, wiggling, crying out, wagging, looking passionately at the pocket with the treats.

The nice woman put the sacks in back, leaned forward for one more hug and kiss for Zinnia, thanked me for coming, urged me to be safe, thanked me for shopping there.

When I got home, Maria came out to help me with the bags. “How did it go?” she asked, glancing over at the gel sanitizer.

“Oh fine,” I said, “I never even got out of the car.”

It was a good day for this OMAR. I loved every minute.

Maybe I can get to shop again next week.