That Person

A while back I was standing in line at the grocery store when the lady in front of me decided to pay by check. My first thought was this: Who still pays by check? Anyway, she extracted her checkbook and a pen and began to write at a slow, methodical pace that could easily be confused by those less attuned to the situation as the complete absence of all motion.

Meanwhile, I twiddled my thumbs.

I thought about scratching my itchy nose but didn’t, because I didn’t want it to be mistaken for picking.

I tapped my foot.

I thought about what I was going to do that night.

I thought about what I was going to do that week.

I thought about the last year of my life, and the highs and lows thereof.

I thought about how fun it would be to be named Conway Twitty.

I thought about the last five years of my life, and what I’d accomplished, and what I’d hoped to but hadn’t.

I thought about the world I lived in, and all of its incredible complexities that one could never hope to understand unless given an incredibly long time to do nothing but ponder.

I’d just about figured out the meaning of life when the lady finished writing the check. I looked up and rubbed my eyes as she handed the check to the cashier. Not surprisingly, the check wasn’t accepted by the cash register, probably because the check slot hadn’t been used in several years and was filled with cobwebs.

With the cashier’s urging, the lady then proceeded to write out a second check, which took about as long as the first, and which was again rejected by the cash register, much to the surprise of the cashier, the lady, and absolutely nobody else. At this point the lady dug into her purse, pulled out a credit card, and said, “I guess I’ll use this.”

The gnashing of my teeth lasted for quite some time after that, as my brain futilely tried to conceive why the lady hadn’t just use her credit card right away. In addition, I couldn’t help but wonder why was I always stuck behind “that person”? Get with the times!

This incident has been on my mind lately, and I’ve come to realize that it was unfair to get angry with the check writing lady. Nobody sets out to be “that person”. It just happens somewhere along the way. One day you’re doing just fine, and then you’re suddenly struggling to keep up with the changing times and are constantly inconveniencing others with your lack of adaptability.

Now, simply by using this logic, I’ve realized that there will most likely come a point in time where I’ll have become “that person”.

Or has it happened already? #CueOminousPipeOrganMusic

You see, I like to pay by cash, at least when it’s a minor purchase. I think that it’s fiscally responsible. In my opinion, always swiping a credit card can easily lead to runaway spending. By paying cash, you only have a finite amount on hand at all times, and when you run out, you have to make a conscious decision to get more, either by visiting an ATM or stealing a child’s lunch money.

Sidebar: All government spending should be paid for exclusively with cash, with each sponsoring senator or representative personally counting it out in denominations of no greater than twenty dollar bills, taking directly from the treasury. Said government officials would not be able to perform any other duties, such as attending swank parties, taking bribes, or lying under oath, while they were still in the process of distributing said cash. #DebtCrisisSolved #Brilliant!

Anyway, now I’ve begun to wonder if by always paying with cash, am I inconveniencing others? Do those in line behind me roll their eyes when I force the cashier to count out thirty-seven cents in exact change because I didn’t swipe my card? Do they make eye contact with one-another and give little shakes of their heads, wondering why anybody would be so stuck in the stone ages as to still be using cash?

After dwelling on this for a while, I’ve come to the conclusion that I just don’t care, which means that I very well could be “that person”. This is because one of the hallmarks of being “that person” is that you don’t care if you’re “that person”. In fact, I view it as my right to pay with cash, and if anybody cares, they can just find another checkout line.

So from now on, I’m going to try not to get so annoyed when I encounter “that person”. I mean, I don’t want to be a hypocrite. In fact, perhaps I’ll even encourage them. “Go ahead and write out a check!” I’ll cheer loudly if I ever find myself behind the check-writing lady again. “Do it your way, even if it takes forever! Never compromise!” Then when it’s finally my turn, several millennia later, I’ll break a twenty and make the cashier count out exact change, even though I’ll have a credit card tucked away in my wallet. It’ll be liberating. It’ll make me feel wonderful to not be influenced by contemporary conventions and norms. And it’ll be terrible for you if you’re stuck behind me.

An Ode To Having Nothing To Say

I would like to sit down and write
Something clever and smart
Something that sizzles and has some bite
Yet I can’t make myself start

So instead of something thought-provoking
I’m writing in simple rhyme
And even in that I’m pretty much choking
Dang, what rhymes with “rhyme”?

I guess this is just a classic case
Of writing with writer’s block
You’d think I’d give up and just save face
But I’m too proud to stop

I hope you weren’t expecting much more
My brain’s all lost in a fog
But hey! What are you complaining for?
This is just a stupid blog

Man Versus Shopping

The sky is slate gray. The air is cool. I look out the car window and squint at the long, low building facing me. I feel like a Clint Eastwood character just before a shootout. I half-expect a tumbleweed to roll by. The dramatic background music reaches its pulse-pounding crescendo. I take a deep breath and turn off the radio. It’s time.

I step out of the car, but I hesitate, my stomach churning. I can still turn back. Maybe I should put it off a little longer. I look at my watch and calculate that I’m already a half-year late. This has to happen now. I set my jaw, like Clint would, and begin to walk across the parking lot. With each step I take, a sharp metallic ring rises up from my feet, slow and rhythmic.

chink…chink…chink...

I look down and kick the annoying loose soda bottle cover away. Soon, I’m across the parking lot and through the automatic sliding doors.

The fluorescent lights are blinding. The floor is polished to a shine. There is clothing as far as the eye can see. My head swims at the sheer artificialness of it all, and I dearly wish that I was still in bed, huddled under a mound of covers, where I wouldn’t have to be so brave.

Kohl’s is a scary place.

I look down at my jeans, which I purchased many years ago. They’re the last pair I own that I can wear in public without risking an indecent exposure charge, and they’re borderline. The small holes in them that appeared months ago are growing larger and can no longer be ignored. The legs are hopelessly shredded at the ends. The entire pair may dissolve at any moment. This gives me the motivation that I need, and I slog onward into the depths of the store, ignoring my unsettled stomach. It’s man versus shopping, not a battle that I wanted, but one that’s been pushed upon me.

I pass several Marc Anthony displays. He looks incredibly pompous, like he expects everybody to bow down before him right then and there. I want to punch the smiling cutout in the teeth, but I figure there are security cameras.

I find the jeans section. It’s huge. Luckily, I’m prepared. I know exactly what I need. I quickly find the Levi’s, along with the right size and style. I smile. My smugness, however, is short lived. Apparently, these jeans are no longer made in normal colors. I can’t even begin to describe the various options, besides to say they’re some horrible mixture of streaked, striped, faded, and torn, obviously designed for “hip” people who are twenty years old and under and also apparently blind.

Minutes later I’m back sitting in my car, muttering, consumed with frustration. If Marc Anthony were to walk by, I would probably hit him with my car. Still, I can’t give up. Clint wouldn’t give up. Perhaps Kohl’s only has a limited selection. Using my phone, I locate a nearby J.C. Penny.

Twenty minutes later, I’m looking at J.C. Penney’s selection of Levi’s jeans in my size and style. They’re all also horrible colors, and it becomes crystal clear that this isn’t a matter of sparse stocking at Kohl’s. This is all there is. I begin to panic, a completely un-Eastwoodesque move, and pick a pair that’s the least unappealing, which is saying very little. I enter the changing room, my mind still trying to catch up with my body’s clearly deranged actions, where I then discover that the jeans don’t even come close to fitting anyway. This is perplexing. I definitely haven’t done a reverse Biggest Loser since I bought my currently dissolving jeans, so the only logical conclusion is that Levi’s has completely changed their sizing, for the sole purpose of driving me crazy.

Time is becoming a critical factor. My current jeans can’t hold out much longer.

tick…tick…tick.

Panic mixes with anger. THIS SHOULDN’T BE SO HARD! I leave the dressing room and replace the jeans. My facial features twitch, and my head snaps back and forth as I desperately search for a miracle that I have no confidence in finding.

Then, when all hope seems lost, in my peripheral vision I see what appears to be an oasis of normalcy. Can it be? Jeans, in the style I need that are also normal colors? I run over, rubbing my eyes. IT IS!! Sure, they’re an inferior brand, but they’re men’s jeans with normal colors that aren’t made to fit like hot dog casings! HALLELUJAH!! I must buy twenty pair!!

I glide to the checkout, my composure fully regained, squinting against the fluorescent glare in a very Eastwoodesque manner. I even manage to ignore smug Marc Anthony. In the battle of man versus shopping, man has prevailed. Victory is mine.

On the way home, I realize that I need dress pants.

It's Alive!!!!

Perhaps it’s because I’m not what you’d call a worrier. Perhaps it’s because I’m just lazy. Perhaps it’s because it isn’t my appliance. Whatever the reason, I just don’t find it at all disconcerting that my microwave is either self-aware or possessed.

Let me explain. The microwave in question was one of the appliances provided for me in my apartment, and it’s recently begun to act very strange. It all started a few months ago when it began to randomly turn itself on. I’d walk into the kitchen and find it humming away happily, the light inside glowing brightly. Hoping that this was somehow an advanced feature, like you’d find if there was such a thing as an iMicrowave, I’d look into it to see if a mug of hot chocolate had spontaneously generated for me, but that was never the case, which was always disappointing. Actually, it was just the inside fan and the light that were not. It wasn't actually generating any heat. Still, after this happened a few times, I had to face the facts that I had a rogue microwave on my hands.

Now, while it was kind of neat to have an appliance that turned itself on whenever it felt the need, it was still something that I wanted to avoid, for safety and energy reasons, so I solved the problem by keeping it unplugged except when I wanted to use it.

It’s important to note that I didn’t call maintenance. Nor did I do any research to try and determine if this was a common problem with this brand of microwave that could easily be solved. I just wasn’t that concerned. I actually thought it was pretty cool.

The microwave, obviously miffed at my lack of worry, then recently upped the ante. Now, when I plug it in, it automatically starts itself up right away, before I even have a chance to push a button, and as far as I can tell, it will continue to run as long as I keep it plugged in. The only thing that stops it, besides unplugging it, is if I open the door.

I handled this new wrinkle by yawning and altering my strategy. Now I just have whatever I need nuked ready to go when I plug in the microwave. After it automatically starts up, I quickly type in the duration that I want it to cook for, even though the microwave is already semi-running, and hit “Start”, causing the timer to begin its countdown. I then wait for it to hit 0:00. At that point, the microwave beeps and stops heating, but still continues to run. This is my notice to open the door and remove my food, after which I unplug the microwave until I need it next.

No big problem. An easy workaround.

Still, I wonder if I’m being too nonchalant about this? Should I be more worried? I guess the reason for my lack of concern is that besides blowing up, I’m not sure what else the microwave could do would make things any worse, unless, of course, it gets really mad and eats me the next time I plug it in, which would be kind of awesome anyway, so I’m willing to risk it.

I guess I just find the whole thing quite amusing, and if I fixed the problem, I’d no longer get the chuckle out of having a microwave that obviously has other aspirations beyond doing the will of its owner. It’s kind of like Skynet becoming self-aware, except it’s not yet sending evil minions constructed of CGI after me. Heck, maybe it does want to take over the world, and who am I to stand in its way?

Anyway, when it comes down to it, as long as it still cooks my food, I don’t really care.

Plus, it’d be fun if Arnold Schwarzenegger got sent back in time to protect me.