We Have to Move

I just got back from our local grocery store.

I'm afraid we're just going to have to move.

I say this every time I go to the local grocery store because it seems to be the gathering place of all the people who fit the stereotype of this part of town. You know: the beautiful people. The surgically augmented, perfectly manicured, immaculately attired, beautiful people who will NOT get off of their cell phones no matter WHO is on fire right in front of them.

Perhaps I should explain that I am NOT one of the beautiful people. Surgically augmented? Ah, no. (Well, unless you count the rather obvious "augmentation" to my body since my two c-sections.) Perfectly manicured? Nope. Immaculately attired? Twice that I know of, I've gone into the store with my shirt on inside-out. I'm normally the one in Birkenstocks with butter in her hair.

My quintessential trip to this grocery store sums up the whole place: I was leaving the store with a cart full of groceries when I saw this woman about to back her gold Suburban over her own shopping cart. I shouted and leaving my own groceries, I sprinted (I know--it's a stretch as a visual) to move the cart before she damaged her vehicle. She didn't even roll down her window to say thank you. Just gave me a look of complete revulsion and drove away, still chatting on her cell phone. And then someone else yelled at me for leaving my own cart in the middle of the lane.

Sums it up. I came home and told my husband, "We have to move."

And the thing is, the grocery store itself is bad. It's got the big sign out front that proudly proclaims it the "Flagship" store but it's overpriced and the quality of the produce isn't that great. Since my foot surgery, though, I can't just drive around and shop at the grocery store with the cheapest prices or best produce. I need to get in and get out. Plus, all of our prescriptions are at the pharmacy there.

Anyway, I always come home in a bad mood, no matter how Zen I make up my mind to be or how much wine I buy. I start strong enough: I smile at people. I am excessively polite, saying excuse me and "oh, no, please go ahead" even when it's some viciously thin woman wearing a tennis skirt, talking on the phone and cutting in line ahead of me. I make up my mind to pity these poor people for their need to exert whatever small power they have by berating the staff there. (Honestly, after a while you can recognize the long-term employees by the fact that they each have developed a twitch.) I pity those rude people for their self-important airs and their blatantly superior attitudes just because they managed to get their starched shirts on right side out. (An overrated skill in my not-so-humble opinion.)

I don't know. Maybe it's because I'm still in eighth grade but after a while, it begins to bug me. It's one thing to have people look down their noses at you simply for existing. It's another thing entirely to become completely invisible to them. Pretty soon, I start wanting to kick random strangers in the shins. "I said EXCUSE ME, you arrogant vomitous mass of unmannerly snot. Take THAT!" And as I leave them writhing in the aisle, maybe I'll toss this over my shoulder. "And by the way, your shirt is STUPID."

See what I mean? I think we have to move.