I know it’s sometimes frustrating to go to Costco and discover that there are other people there who want to buy things at the same time that you want to buy things. That’s why I usually go midweek, sometime in the afternoon after school has let out yet before people get off of work. I’m usually delighted by the short lines at those times. And today was no different.
Apparently you held a different opinion. You’d filled your cart to the brim with delicious, supersized goods. It must have weighed at least 200 lbs. Yet your steel cornucopia’s challenging density didn’t deter you from flitting from line to line, certain that you could outwit the time/space continuum. It seems that at some point you settled on my line and, shoving your cart in front of a woman who was clearly already behind me, you declared, “I’m behind her!”
Had I been the victim of your cart-bullying, I would have spoken up. But, perhaps seeing abdication as being the better part of valor, my former linemate chose to let you have your way and moved to another line. So there we were, waiting for the person ahead of us (yes, just one customer) to finish his transaction. But things weren’t moving fast enough for you. No, you just had to share your management and logistics expertise by bellowing, “Too much talking! Not enough working!” and “Come on! I want to get out of here!”
To accommodate you, two Costco employees proceeded to open up the closed register next to us. At which point you moved your cart over and began to place items on the conveyor belt. But things still weren’t moving fast enough for you. When you were told it would take a minute or two to set things up, you escalated your fit, throwing items across the aisle onto the empty conveyor belt behind my items. Again, you made your wishes clear. “I want to get out of here!”
Lady, we wanted you to get out of there too.
A few moments passed, during which I began my transaction, eager to get away from you as quickly as possible. But then you decided to talk to me. Fortunately, you didn’t screech at me. Instead, the true depths of your madness emerged. In a scene right out of Sybil, Tantrum Woman was gone and instead I had a new best girlfriend! “Hey,” you fairly moaned, “Those strawberries look awesome.”
Let’s get something straight here. I am not your friend. And, setting aside for the moment that I loathe anyone over the age of 16 who uses the word “awesome” without irony, I am in fact mad at you for several reasons. First, you have just made every middle aged, middle class white woman in the world look like a clueless, entitled, whiny, hateful prima donna. Thanks a lot. Second, and more important, you’ve just spent five minutes verbally abusing people who are trying to help you and who are still being nice to you. That’s why I turned around and said, “You see these people here? They are human beings. Why don’t you try treating them as such?”
Okay, I didn’t really do that. I was just having one of my Walter Mitty moments and couldn’t actually bring myself to confront an odious dragon lady such as yourself. Maybe one day I’ll have the balls to do such a thing. I like to hope so.
Instead, I asked the cashier if she had to take happy pills to do this job. Then I told her about the one stint I had in a job “serving the public” and how I lasted all of a month in it. Do you know why I was talking to her? Just to piss you off!
Maybe you saw us laughing. Did you wonder what we were laughing about? We were laughing at you!
I know it’s hard to change. You probably won’t. That’s why one day I hope you have to work a retail job, or some other job dealing with the public, so you can spend your days navigating an endless series of abusive, five minute long relationships with people just like you.
Races Like a Girl
P.S. Are you the same crazy bitch who nearly ran me over on Pipeline Road this morning when I was out for my run?