An Open Letter

To you (you know who you are):

I know you see me.

Because I sure enough see you.

I see you - with your Super Bowl sized shopping cart filled to the brim with baked goods, Aquafina and raw beef - trying to pretend you don’t see me. But I’m right there, standing behind you in line, a bag of frozen salmon beneath one arm, an eight-pack of muffins beneath the other and a bag of shrimp in between my first finger and thumb holding on for dear life.

See me?

Yeah, I’m the one whose eyes are throwing daggers your way.

I shift the frozen fish beneath my arms as you take care to load your 16 pack of hot dog buns onto the conveyor belt. You pick through the bottom of your never-ending cart to pass more items toward the cashier.

Triple chocolate cake.

Tyson’s Hot Wings.

Jumbo-sized Shampoo.

Batteries.

You make me sick.

You and people like you. You’re the person who decides to wait until the end of the month to stock up on everything you need in life and then jump in the express line at Sam’s Club. As you unload your purchases, I, or someone like me, come up behind you.

I just ran in for a few items. I hadn’t expected to be in line for that long. I didn’t even need to pick up a shopping cart. I could hold it all in my hand. It's going on 15 minutes in line.

My arms are going numb now. You don’t seem to care.

Instead of saying, “oh, you can go ahead in front of me since you only have a few items,” you stubbornly continue to unload your cart onto the moving belt.

A 15-pack of college ruled notebooks.

Toilet paper.

Anti-freeze.

Truth be told, I probably don’t have the right to be mad. You were here before I was, standing in line a whole two seconds before me. It’s only right I should wait while you pay for enough supplies to last your family through winter hibernation.

Clam chowder.

Coffee creamer.

A folding lawn chair.

Rightfully or not, I am mad. I’m steaming, actually. I try not to let it show on my face as you look toward the back of your cart, averting your gaze to keep from locking eyes with me.

My salmon is on the floor now. My muffins, on the display of Gatorade to my left. I watch you unapologetically. I want you to see me staring at you.

I want you to see me waiting.

Twin-packed loaves of bread.

A dictionary.

A rotisserie chicken.

Finally, you make your way up to the checkout. The cashier swipes your card and begins transferring your purchases to an empty cart nearby. I move forward and place my seafood and muffins on the conveyor belt, being careful to put the plastic separator between our orders.

I look down to dig into my purse, so I can have my debit card and membership card at the ready when its finally my turn. As I raise my head, I wonder to myself what is taking so long.

My gaze finds you hunched over the credit card machine, but you’re not swiping plastic.

Are you really writing a check? No. Not now. Not today. Not ever.

You tear the perforated edges and hand the slip to the cashier, glancing back in my direction.

Oh, you want to see me now? What do you expect, a polite smile?

If so, you need to keep looking because you won’t find one here. I despise you and people like you. You make life hard for single people like me who just want to run into the store and grab enough fixings to make a bowl of spaghetti or a simple seafood supper tonight. If I hated things, you’d be at the top of the list. You and all of your groceries.

I hope the bad things in life happen to you and only you, inconsiderate grocery line person. You make me sick.

Sincerely,
T-Dot