Why I hate shopping

A little observational musing

I must make a confession right here. I hate shopping. This is not to be confused with buying things, which is something I do very very well. I do, after all, own 45 pairs of shoes (estimated), various electronic gizmos and a houseful of accumulated stuff. It's the process of loading the family into the car, driving into town and going into a store to wander about and look at things that I hate. It just brings out the worst in me and turns me into a snarking, sneering jerk. To put it mildly. Once while I was still married, we piled into the cars to go to Walmart with the three girls, my oldest stepdaughter and my in-laws. Surveying the scene, I grabbed the hubby's arm. "My God".

 

"What?" he asked.

 

"We look like The Beverly Hillbillies Go To Town". It was horrifying.

 

"Oh, we do not" he huffed.

 

"We will if I can convince your mother to ride on the roof of the car in a chair."

 

It wasn't any better when we arrived there either, since the in-laws' purpose in going was apparently to study intently every object for sale in the entire place. Me, I like to go in, get what I came for, and get out as fast as possible before my brain begins to melt. But there are legions of people for whom shopping is a recreational activity. Which is fine, I guess, until the day I have to push my way past some one who's spent twenty minutes blocking the aisle pondering the merits of Twinkies versus Ring Dings just so I can grab a loaf of bread and she gives me a dirty look like I'm the rude one.

 

And people have the most extraordinary attitude towards public behaviour. That's what gets me. Much has already been said by better writers than I on the sartorial habits of the native American Shopper (and for proof I direct you towards People of Walmart, a site that gives me whole hours of delighted drink-spewing moments) so I won't get into those here, except to say that there are only three people in the known universe who can wear a tube top in public. One of them is Selene, and the other two are probably being held in an underground lab in someplace like Roswell, New Mexico, being studied by government scientists. Everyone else, just....no.

 

No, it's how they never seem to notice that other people are around them that gets to me. They block aisles with their carts, their children run amuck throughout the store bashing into little old ladies and spitting into produce bins, they hold loud conversations on their phones on topics ranging from their gas mileage to their last colonoscopy, they yell at said children when they manage to knock over some poor wheelchair-bound man, they scratch themselves; you name it, I bet someone's done it. One lady on her phone asked her partner on the other end detailed and rather personal questions about the texture and form of "little Ricky's diarrhea" in the grocery store (I suddenly had to put the oatmeal I had intended to buy back on the shelf). Another woman in one of those motorised carts coughed lavishly all over her hands before picking over a whole basket of fruit ( and to think I used to chastise my kids for touching, even in passing, anything that wasn't in a package). And in a checkout line at Target (this was just the other day) I overheard a not-too-carefully concealed argument over anal sex that led me to start laughing uncontrollably, which I couldn't stop until I got into my car and until the couple had secretly vowed to never darken the door of Target again, which is just as well because I wouldn't be able to take seriously a lecture on sex from a guy in a John Deere hat, if it were me.

 

It's not any better on the flip side either. Employees have to mop up urine on the floors, repackage things people have opened up and pulled out, pick up dozens of abandoned coffee and soda cups, chase kids out of restricted areas and teenage lovers out of changing rooms, and listen to personal phone calls at the checkout. I used to work at a chain department store. Once--this is true--we chased down two teenagers who grabbed a display mannequin (the whole mannequin) and took off down the mall. We managed to save the torso, but the kids fought for and got away with the head. We propped the damaged torso in a dark corner of the stockroom and after many ribald jokes about his almost-anatomically correct person, forgot he was there, and would jump in alarm everytime we took inventory and came across him. Another time--this was also true--our men's room was advertised somewhere as a discreet "meeting place" for those who, for whatever reason, were too cheap to spring for a motel room. When we were informed of this, by a somewhat shell-shocked customer who'd had the audacity to use the bathroom for its intended function, only Kathy, our ball-busting department manager, had the presence of mind (the rest of us were laughing too hard) to march in there and demand they stop it immediately. To which they replied "Just another minute, damn it", never missing a stroke. After that we just piled furniture in front of the door, since no one would let us set it on fire.

 

So a note to all you shoppers out there: No one cares about your love life, your health, or your phone conversations, so shut up already. Please wear a bra, pull up your pants, keep your hands off the food and your fingers out of your nose. Children should be seen yet not heard, preferably in soundproof glass cages in the back of your SUV. If you really cannot decide between the Twinkies and the Ring Dings, step out of the flow of traffic while you make your selections. And stay out of men's rooms. Thank you.

Reviews

[mrsparker]

Very funny. I enjoy this style of writing. Dry wit is often hard to pull off, you did a good job of it. Enjoyed!

[Robin]

Bwhahahahahaa !!! thank you ! it is indeed a strangeland this zoo of humanity found at your nearby shopping centers , your pain is shared ..