STOOP Rant

     Dear STOOP, (Shopper Totally Oblivious of Other People),
   
    I know you. I remember you from the parking lot. When I was sitting there for seven solid minutes, with my blinker ticking merrily away, patiently waiting for the little old lady to perform a perfect eighteen point turn in order to extricate her pint-sized vehicle from its better than average parking spot. And then you, Stoop, you came out of nowhere, and before her tailpipe had fully exited the spot, you had swooped in, taking my spot right out from under me.
     Then you had the audacity to look surprised as you exited your own car and pretended to see me for the first time. There I was, stunned myself, still sitting there, blinker ticking rhythmically away. Not so merrily now. More like the sound of a time bomb. And you were shocked.
     Shocked? Really? Why were you shocked? Were you suddenly struck by some kind of reverse tunnel vision, where you could only see peripherally, while anything that was dead ahead was swallowed in blinding darkness? Or had I accidentally forgotten to take down my Invisibility Shield? What exactly was it that had caused you to miss my OBVIOUS presence?
     But, I decided to let bygones be bygones, and as I slogged the two slushy miles from my new, far less convenient parking spot, I was determined not to hold a grudge. I decided you must have needed that spot more than me for reasons I didn't know.
    Okay, I will admit that the thought crossed my mind that fate was saving me from some unforeseen doom. Like space junk suddenly falling out of the sky and landing on exactly that spot, crushing your vehicle to smithereens. What? It's not unheard of.
     Then, just when I had finally forgiven you, (not forgiven exactly, but at least I was no longer daydreaming about your car squashed and fully engulfed in a fiery inferno), there you were. Ten feet from the check out lane. The twelve items or less check out. And there I was, five feet away and carrying one measly little gallon of milk. No bread. No eggs. Just one little item. While you were pushing a cart loaded down with no less than twenty things, and one small child.
     Our eyes met. The gauntlet was thrown. I picked up my pace. You threw on the afterburners. And somehow, SOMEHOW, you got there before me. Though there was some collateral damage. Your eggs were crushed when half a dozen soup cans fell on top of them. The bread too.
     You positioned your cart as if nothing untoward had happened and began to unload, carefully avoiding my gaze until the crucial moment when your first item was placed on the belt, thus claiming it as your own. And then you had the nerve, the gall, the chutzpah to shoot me that same look of innocent shock from the parking lot. Your face says, "Oh my, did I just cut you off? I am so terribly sorry!" While your brain says, "Ha! Beat ya to it beyotch!"
     Yeah. I got your number. And your number, (since I AM counting), is twenty-one. Twenty-one items in the twelve or less. I don't care if two of them are loaves of bread and six are cans of soup. Like items do not combine to make one, or the sign would read 12 Items or Less, OR 21 Like Items or Less. It doesn't.
     Then I waited while someone was sent to retrieve a new, unbroken dozen of eggs.
     And if that wasn't enough, instead of cash, or a credit card, or a debit card, (all perfectly reasonable forms of payment in an express lane), you pulled out a check book. A check book?! And started, I can't reiterate this enough, STARTED, to write a check.
    Now if it was me, and I was planning on using the express lane to check out, and was planning on writing a check (really???), I would at least have all but the amount filled out. But no. Not you, Stoop. For you these measures are unnecessary.
   I won't even further the rant by mentioning how you acted at the gas station. Oh, who am I kidding, yes, I most certainly will. You pulled up to the first pump (instead of pulling through to the second like anyone with an ounce of sense would do), leaving me to wait while you pumped your gas, and then went inside to pay. And use the bathroom. And purchase a cappuccino. And possibly make one or two phone calls. Maybe even restock their shelves for them. Generous spirit that you are. Either way, by the time you returned to your car, the gas price had changed twice and I had forgotten why I was there in the first place.
     My point is, I live in a different world. I actually suffer from a guilty conscience when I inconvenience someone. And I go out of my way to try to avoid it. Not just because I hate to feel ashamed. But because it's the right thing to do.
And so, in all fairness, I am writing you this letter. Not to complain, whine, or bemoan the incidents of our past, but because, I feel obliged as a fellow human being, not to inconvenience you in any manner. And so, I'm letting you know, I will be shopping today. I'm not stopping for gas and I don't care where I park. I have only one item on my list. It is Midol. Today is a BAD day to write a check. Just thought you should know.