*published May 12, 2005
One place I've found to do this is the checkout line at Albertson's. I know that I cannot make the line move any faster. Since I have no control over other peoples' pace, I must slow down and wait my turn. So I put my brain on "pause" and stand in line.
While lingering, I skim the covers of magazines promising to make me rich, thin and a decorating diva. I glance at the decadent chocolate dessert with the teaser, "Get Rid of That Belly Bulge Forever!" superimposed over the swirled mounds of mousse. "By eating chocolate?" I reflect, "Sign me up!" Sometimes I am even sucked into buying magazines that say they will help me create a glorious garden in my yard. Trust me, they don't.
Lately, I've been encountering a type of shopper I call the Bulldozer. This person does not wish to take a mental break and wants the line to move faster than physical law allows. As soon as they pull their cart in, they stand directly behind me. Since I am short, they literally breathe down my neck. They watch me put each item on the conveyor belt, sighing a bit occasionally to express their impatience. If I have to move my cart to get at the detergent, I feel their displeasure as they back up. They hound me like this down the line, finally standing shoulder to shoulder with me as I swipe my ATM card. I find myself doing a handstand to keep them from seeing my PIN.
After working with horses, I'm tempted to turn and back them off, the way I would a pushy pony. But I don't. Because of an odd incident a few years ago, I no longer talk to other shoppers in line unless it is absolutely necessary.
It was in my neighborhood Alpha Beta (remember those?) on a very busy weekend afternoon. I was waiting in line, reading the headlines on various papers and magazines. A woman behind me laughed; I turned to see what was so amusing. She was looking at one of the tabloids, and said to me, "They're just so silly."
"Aren't they are hoot?" I agreed. I could have turned back to my cart, but, like an idiot, I kept talking.
"I especially like the ones about aliens," I added.
"You know, I was abducted by aliens once," she told me.
Uh-oh.
While I unloaded my cart, she described in excruciating detail how the space ship landed in their orchard when she was nine years old, and that it looked just like a flying saucer, even though she didn't see any of those pictures until she was older, and that they took her on board and her brothers told her not to tell anyone, but she didn't see anything wrong so she told people about it all the time.
Oh-kay.
As I handed my money to the cashier, the Alien Lady was still talking about her ordeal in the ship and what the aliens looked like. The cashier nodded slightly toward her and looked at me with a smile that said, "Is she with you?"
All I could hear was my pulse pounding in my ears. It's possible that I had an out-of-body experience as I rushed from the store, but I'm not sure. I would like to publicly apologize to all of the people I hit with my cart in my escape.
So I don't talk to anyone in the checkout line now, not even the Bulldozers. I suppose I could back them off by coughing or muttering that I hope I brought enough pennies to pay the bill. Or maybe I could engage them in some sort of story about seeing Elvis down at Brian's last night. That way I could go back to my mental catnap… unless they'd seen him, too.