Yesterday morning after we returned home from church, I went to our neighborhood Fry’s grocery store to buy a few things for dinner. It also gave me a chance to see for myself all of the signs of angst about which people have been posting on Facebook for the past week.

Yes, Friends, it’s true. There is scarcely a six-pack of toilet tissue…..

Honestly, I couldn’t help but laugh. Yes, I know that I need to take the coronavirus seriously. But how seriously? Because, of all the things to stock up on in preparation for Armegeddon, you pick toilet paper? Just how much do people wipe their but-tocks each day? (Don’t answer that in the comments section please.)

As I perused the store, I began to notice the things that people WEREN’T hoarding. Things that I think I would be hoarding should I actually believe that I’m going to be trapped like a cockroach in my house sometime soon.

Like bacon…..

Or what about ice cream?…..

Can you imagine an Armageddon without potato chips?…..

Or, for heaven’s sake, BEER?…..

There doesn’t seem to be a run on any of those products. In fact, at least in the store I visited, there was even a fair number of disinfecting products. I picked up a can of Lysol Spray so that I don’t have to carefully make my way over to a neighbor begging to trade my roll of toilet paper for their can of Lysol.

I’m not laughing at people. Fear is real. But perhaps I have just lived through so many so-called pandemic scares that I’m no longer scared. Remember Swine Flu in 1976? Or SARS in 2003? Or more recently, Bird Flu and Swine Flu in 2005 and 2009, respectively? I was also recently reminded about Hong Kong Flu in 1968. I don’t really remember that particular virus strain, because in 1968 I was much more interested in sneaking past Sr. Bernardis before she noticed that I had the waistband of my uniform skirt folded over so many times it looked like an origami swan. Otherwise she would have made me kneel to prove that the hem was more than two inches from the floor. But I don’t recall a tower of toilet paper in our bathroom that Mom had hoarded. And I would have noticed, because our bathroom was about the size of a postage stamp.

Which begs the question, where are people putting all of the toilet paper and disinfecting products they are hoarding? Do little Emmy and little Daisy Mae finally have to share a room so that the tissue and wipes have a storage spot?

And there is one last thing that is troubling me. The powers-that-be seem to be particularly concerned about the elderly. If you are elderly, stay inside. Avoid people. Wash the already-too-thin skin of your hands 30 or 40 times a day. But my question is, what constitutes “elderly?” I’m 66. Am I elderly?

I posed this question to my brother-in-law yesterday, because he was celebrating his birthday, and he is the same age as me. He was pretty sure we meet the “elderly” criteria at this point. His rationale was a news story about two “elderly” people who died from the coronavirus. One was 85 and one was, ahem, 65.

But back to my original question. (I know; it was so long ago that you’ve forgotten what that is.) It is in regards to toilet paper. I have no interest in hoarding toilet paper. But I just want to be able to buy a few rolls when my current supply runs out so that I, too, can wipe my but-tocks.

People: leave a few for the rest of us.