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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