Publix is my favorite grocery store. Maybe because it smells like bread all of the time. Maybe because it's the freshest produce I can find since Acworth has never heard of Whole Foods. Whatever the reason, I love doing my grocery shopping there. Except for one thing.
Normally I'm not a buggy shopper, (and yes, I call it a buggy, not a cart. I live in the South, dammit), but it's hard to fit one of those giant packages of toilet paper in one of those itty, bitty baskets, so today, I had a buggy.
I have a certain tactic to checking out with a buggy. I'll scout the checkers, looking for the one that doesn't have a bagger. You see, Publix has a policy that I'm convinced is tatooed across the backs of every employee. CARRYOUT SERVICE IS REQUIRED FOR BUGGY SHOPPERS.
So when I have a buggy, I pray that I can pay for my items and get out of the store without someone chirping, "Can I help you to your car?"
Now don't get me wrong, it's a wonderful service, but it makes me more uncomfortable than watching a dog get friendly with a stranger's leg.
If I say yes, I cannot abide the awkward silences or mundane conversations about the weather that surely come along with carryout service. Not to mention the inordinate amount of guilt I feel watching some poor soul chuck 50 pounds of groceries into my trunk in 100 degree Georgia heat.
Even worse is when I say no. Then I feel like I may as well have just murdered their kitten. Like I'm the only thing that's getting them through their work day, and since I said no, what, really, is the point in living any more?
You aren't supposed to tip them, but I always feel compelled to give them something. A hug would be too much, a handshake too formal. Last time, I gave a friendly punch on the shoulder and a "Thanks, dude." I don't think the nice, 55 year-old gentleman who helped me to my car appreciated the gesture.
So today, when I wheeled my buggy through a bagger free line, I almost cried with happiness at the possibility of getting out of there without the following interchange.
"Help you to your car?"
"Oh, no thanks. I'm good." *CRINGE*
"You sure?"
"I'm sure. Thanks though!" **DOUBLE CRINGE**
OH GOD THE FEELINGS OF GUILT AND SHAME!!!
I was almost scot-free, was rolling on out through the automatic doors, when an employee stopped me, placed a hand on my buggy, and asked the question.
And in my head, I was all "NO, NO, NO. Do not ask me that. I'll have to be honest with you and break your heart. WHY do you have to make me feel like a complete asshole?"
I politely refused, and she looked at my like I was crazy.
And then it dawned on me. Maybe I AM the crazy one. After all, who doesn't want the task of unloading one's groceries foisted off onto some other poor, hapless soul?
Maybe I'm just that one anti-social moron who thinks it's odd and squirmy. Am I so much a part of the self-service generation that I have forgotten--nay, even delegated to the purgatory of awkardness--the luxury of full service??!
Once upon a time, there were people waiting to pump our gas, wash our cars, answer our questions over the telephone when we had them.
All of which got me thinking about technology and the world we live in. I've always been one of those people who would rather deal with a machine. If I can look it up on the internet instead of actually interacting with another person, you can count me in. It's one of those weird nueroses I have. You know, the fear that someone may think you're stupid after conversating with you for less than five minutes?
Anyway, I've recently actually needed to speak with a living, breathing, flesh and blood person, and all I've gotten was a machine. The absolute anger and frustration over not being able to get in touch with anyone was enough to have me running around my house like a hamster in one of those freaking balls that are supposed to get them some exercise. Whoever heard of a hamster exercising anyway?
So maybe next time, I'll slow down a little and let the nice bagger take my groceries for me. Maybe I'll even try a little conversation.
And maybe, just maybe, the next time I call my doctor's office, someone will answer. But I doubt it.
Normally I'm not a buggy shopper, (and yes, I call it a buggy, not a cart. I live in the South, dammit), but it's hard to fit one of those giant packages of toilet paper in one of those itty, bitty baskets, so today, I had a buggy.
I have a certain tactic to checking out with a buggy. I'll scout the checkers, looking for the one that doesn't have a bagger. You see, Publix has a policy that I'm convinced is tatooed across the backs of every employee. CARRYOUT SERVICE IS REQUIRED FOR BUGGY SHOPPERS.
So when I have a buggy, I pray that I can pay for my items and get out of the store without someone chirping, "Can I help you to your car?"
Now don't get me wrong, it's a wonderful service, but it makes me more uncomfortable than watching a dog get friendly with a stranger's leg.
If I say yes, I cannot abide the awkward silences or mundane conversations about the weather that surely come along with carryout service. Not to mention the inordinate amount of guilt I feel watching some poor soul chuck 50 pounds of groceries into my trunk in 100 degree Georgia heat.
Even worse is when I say no. Then I feel like I may as well have just murdered their kitten. Like I'm the only thing that's getting them through their work day, and since I said no, what, really, is the point in living any more?
You aren't supposed to tip them, but I always feel compelled to give them something. A hug would be too much, a handshake too formal. Last time, I gave a friendly punch on the shoulder and a "Thanks, dude." I don't think the nice, 55 year-old gentleman who helped me to my car appreciated the gesture.
So today, when I wheeled my buggy through a bagger free line, I almost cried with happiness at the possibility of getting out of there without the following interchange.
"Help you to your car?"
"Oh, no thanks. I'm good." *CRINGE*
"You sure?"
"I'm sure. Thanks though!" **DOUBLE CRINGE**
OH GOD THE FEELINGS OF GUILT AND SHAME!!!
I was almost scot-free, was rolling on out through the automatic doors, when an employee stopped me, placed a hand on my buggy, and asked the question.
And in my head, I was all "NO, NO, NO. Do not ask me that. I'll have to be honest with you and break your heart. WHY do you have to make me feel like a complete asshole?"
I politely refused, and she looked at my like I was crazy.
And then it dawned on me. Maybe I AM the crazy one. After all, who doesn't want the task of unloading one's groceries foisted off onto some other poor, hapless soul?
Maybe I'm just that one anti-social moron who thinks it's odd and squirmy. Am I so much a part of the self-service generation that I have forgotten--nay, even delegated to the purgatory of awkardness--the luxury of full service??!
Once upon a time, there were people waiting to pump our gas, wash our cars, answer our questions over the telephone when we had them.
All of which got me thinking about technology and the world we live in. I've always been one of those people who would rather deal with a machine. If I can look it up on the internet instead of actually interacting with another person, you can count me in. It's one of those weird nueroses I have. You know, the fear that someone may think you're stupid after conversating with you for less than five minutes?
Anyway, I've recently actually needed to speak with a living, breathing, flesh and blood person, and all I've gotten was a machine. The absolute anger and frustration over not being able to get in touch with anyone was enough to have me running around my house like a hamster in one of those freaking balls that are supposed to get them some exercise. Whoever heard of a hamster exercising anyway?
So maybe next time, I'll slow down a little and let the nice bagger take my groceries for me. Maybe I'll even try a little conversation.
And maybe, just maybe, the next time I call my doctor's office, someone will answer. But I doubt it.
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