A Good Year for the Outlaw

I’m grocery shopping today, checking out, and the guy behind me decides he’s going to try to share my clothes with me as I’m entering my PIN in the debit card pad.

You know the kind…as you’re getting ready to unload your cart, you try to move from behind to in front of your cart, and his cart hits you in the ass as you try to move. Then, as you start to unload your cart, his cart rams into yours while he is busy gaining all of his weekly knowledge from The Enquirer.

You know the kind…after you get you last item on the conveyer belt and put the little stick down behind your items, he moves the stick to within 1 millimeter of your bread and starts piling his stuff on the belt, like that’s going to make things go faster.

You know the kind…as you’re paying, he’s trying to watch your fingers to see if his PIN is the same as yours. Then, as you start to put the items in your cart to leave, his kids leap past you start to play in the five foot area between you and the door, putting you in a redneck-family sandwich.  

I….HATE…these moments. I need my personal space. I would like to have at least 10 inches between me and the guy behind me, let alone the three feet that would be more polite. One of these days, I’m going to revert back to my high school basketball days and box the guy out until Diane has my cart completely paid for and loaded, and THEN he can start to put his crap on the conveyer belt. We’ll see how he likes it.