Wednesday, September 26, 2012

Trader Joe's Parking Lot



I have never seen a more me-first bunch than the people who shop at Trader Joe’s and Whole Foods.  I’m not sure where the over-inflated sense of entitlement or self-worth comes from, but something about over paying for foods labeled as organic creates a throng of self-aggrandized Their Majesties parading themselves about the area with more pomp than necessary or deserved.  It’s a shame, too, because those stores actually have some really nice produce as well as many products I can’t find at Kroger or Publix.

I decided to make a Trader Joe’s run after work on Monday to pick up a few things.  This particular location is likely more frustrating than most, because the parking lot is too small for the number of businesses it serves.  Rather than circling the lot waiting for the closest spot to the store to open up, I try to park in one of the first open spots I can find and walk the gauntlet of royal processions and reversing Priuses.

As I walked behind one woman’s car, she began backing out, apparently without looking.  What caught my attention was the passenger, who was inexplicably sitting in the back seat, apparently being chauffeured, mentioned that someone was walking behind her.  I made a few quick steps to get past her bumper to avoid being hit.  It was only then that she finally noticed that I was there.

She attempted the most pathetic excuse for a non-apology I had ever heard.  I pretty sure you’ve all heard that style of faux-apology before: the person doesn’t actually apologize, but instead offers a set of excuses and pretext to absolve themselves of blame.  I wasn’t having any of it.  I deflected her litany of pseudo-excuses with comments that were clearly not accepting of her absent apology.  I continued walking toward the store, my back to the woman.

Once it became clear that I was not going to say anything to make this woman feel better about herself, to absolve her of any wrongdoing, she diced that the right thing to do was to insult me.  “Get a haircut,” she said.

Get a haircut. 

How dare I not pat her on her head, tell her she’s good?  How.  Dare.  I.  All she did was drive a car without looking where she was going.  What could possibly be wrong about that?  What could possibly go wrong?  I, on the other hand, refused to mend her wounded esteem.  Obviously she wasn’t wrong, I was, and therefore should be insulted.

Get a haircut.

Did she think I couldn’t hear her?  Did she not realize that all of her windows were down and that sound travels through air?  Did she think that it was mandatory that I accept her faux-pology and was now worthy of derision because I didn’t? 

Get a haircut.

Flash.  Temper.

I wheeled around and began shouting at her in full volume, peppering my language with some of the more salty words in my vocabulary.  Since she felt it was alright to give me fashion tips, I responded with appropriate observations regarding her inability to drive and her propensity to not pay attention to her surroundings, only a bit more colorfully than I’m explaining it here.  I’m not sure, but I may have called her the C-word.  If I didn’t, I should have.

As I berated her, she slowly drove away, grimacing.  She didn’t suggest a particular salon or stylist.

I turned back around and headed toward Trader Joe’s, ready to punch a yuppie in the fucking throat.  Also, to buy some goat cheese.

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