Impositions

In which your slightly irritable author gets more irritable.

I have a small pet peeve which yesterday I took to a new level.

I will admit that I was not in a good mood yesterday, all due to a series of relatively minor circumstance. The new attempt at cone-free living had failed for Auggie, and after much anticipation the things I’d ordered would not be usable, and then the two weeks’ worth of eye drops prescribed for him were mostly used for running down his face, and as a result were gone after six days. I had a joyful moment when I realized I could pick them up locally, and then a sinking moment when I realized I would have to drive two hours round trip to pick them up. A store clerk was bored and snotty, and I ended up walking out without what I wanted. I ate badly and didn’t feel well as a result. All while the anxiety about not writing was eating away at me.

So, not big things, but minor annoyances. But when I pulled into the grocery store parking lot for a quick zip in for a couple of essentials, I noticed a group of three people arriving to stand at the entrance to the grocery store. I sat in the car for a moment while I watched them approach everyone who tried to walk into the store.

Now, anyone who knows me will know that I try to be polite. I honestly can’t think of a time I have ever been intentionally rude to anyone. Key word “intentionally”, of course. And among the chores I generally rather enjoy is grocery shopping. So, it’s not as if I am in a bad mood when I go to the grocery store. On the contrary. I am polite and even cheerful with the butchers and the deli and bakery people. I have jovial exchanges with other customers. And I have pleasant little chats with the check-out clerks, all of which I actually enjoy.

But I do not like to speak to strangers waiting for me at the door. I don’t care who they are. My husband could tell you of conversations we have had in which he rolled his eyes when I complained because the Girl Scouts had a table set up, or the local Lions Club was collecting for their charities at the entrance to the Piggly Wiggly. I am perfectly willing to give money, or groceries, or whatever. Even to buy useless items (Popcorn? Ugh. Commercially manufactured cookie dough? Gift wrap? Really?) that I will never use. But I do not want to be accosted when going to the grocery store. It feels like an invasion of my personal space.

You are required to run a gauntlet with half a dozen adorable little girls asking you to buy cookies. Am I kind to them? I hope so. Even charming, maybe. Do I buy cookies? Yes, if they can be sent to soldiers on duty, otherwise I just give them money. Same with the Boy Scouts, and the Little Leaguers, and the high school sports teams, and the local fire works celebrations. I buy stuff. I donate. I cringe inside.

Why does it bother me? Maybe it’s the presumption? That someone is taking advantage of people’s unwillingness to say no? Of someone putting you on the spot? Maybe it’s shyness? Because, contrary to all appearances, I am an introvert. I’m not quite sure. For some reason, the Salvation Army and the Veterans make me less uncomfortable, but that’s a question for another day, along with the plague of “round-up” charitable collections that nearly every store has now.

Anyway, as I watched these—no doubt charming—young people engaging the other wannabe shoppers, I suddenly started up the car and actually drove fifteen minutes through construction traffic to another store, just so I wouldn’t have to talk to them. Another wasted half an hour in a day of squandered time.

Even I don’t get it. But if you want to engage with me, don’t stand at the door of the grocery store.

And now for your gratuitous dog photo

Cone time is one week down. Could be as many as three to go.