The other day, I was partaking in a salad bar. {This, by the way, was at the same location as the Aiden-is-girl-mistaken-identity-incident.} Leaving Jamin to fend for himself with the kiddos at the table, I decided a bit o’ lettuce and carrot sticks would do my body good, when paired with pizza. {And then I slathered it with Thousand Island, thereby completely canceling myself out…but I’m totally off subject here}
Setting=Me. Salad bar. And of course, the eager woman behind me.
The all too overly snorting eager woman behind me.
Here we go. I think you all know where I’m headed with this one.
Rule no. 1 a-la-Ashley: Don’t touch me. If I hug you, it’s a big deal. You’re either my children, I haven’t seen you in a while, or you just had a come to Jesus moment. So if you’re a stranger, you best be out of my bidnass. I feel like holding a seminar for all the people who know me regarding personal space. We are all in a bubble. Do not interfere or pass the boundaries of the bubble…At least not this sacred bubble…
We don’t get out much. But this is my second over eager salad bar encounter. I feel targeted by the touchy-feelies out there. They get me in the lines. They know I’m trapped, and they move in for their attacks. Their merciless, repetitive attacks.
I was moving at a fair pace, when the woman behind me and her child decided to pull the one-container-behind-me-on-everything-I-was-selecting-in-said-bar-move. She was an over anxious salad creator. I move on to the olives, they were already finished with the carrots. And waiting. At multiple points, she actually brushed my elbow. Quite aggressively. Her eight year old anxiously peered onto my plate. Her face was level with it, and every now and then I was quite certain she was breathing on it. Spreading her little anthrax germs onto my perfectly sculpted (however hastily) salad confection.
At this point, I was forced into a delicate decision-making moment. I could either A. turn and scream, “GEEZ, LADY! Where’s the fire!!!???” or I could B. move even slower. This second option goes against my entire belief system, thereby risking more unwanted physical encounters. But I decided the second option was best…thereby creating more frustration for the invasive woman and her offensive offspring.
I finally created my salad but not without a few exasperated sighs from easily exciteable salad lady. I hope she forgot to add cheese.
And so it begins.
‘Tis the season for the unavoidable issue of Christmas shopping. Last year, I was so unfortunately pregnant, that I decided to load up on the goodies before the psychos hit. Call it my final bout with nesting. I even ventured with a friend to Atlanta, and in the great Mecca that is Ikea, found myself ready to go at it with a few over eager all too personal space invaders who felt it necessary to point sharp objects as my Emerson-inhabited tummy in a crowded elevator. And this year…I haven’t even started.
I can’t stand black Friday. I hate the crowds with their bullying, and I can’t help but laugh at all the desperados who get trampled every year on the five-o’clock news. Seriously…haven’t they figured it out yet that it happens? Every single year? And over what? The latest Bratz doll? Empty promises for great deals on a laptop? Parents are brutal. People are mean. And I just don’t want people’s nasty germ-infested retail-hording hands all over yours truly and my children. I know it will only get worse the older my children get, with their explicit Christmas requests…but for now I resolutely refuse to participate in the madness.
SO I want to know…
1. Who’s already decorated for Christmas? I think more people have done it than are willing to admit…fess up.
2. What’s the status of your Christmas shopping? If you’re finished…I am not sure I want to know…please phrase this gently, as I am feeling quite fragile with my retail phobias…
3. Do you get out for Black Friday? Do you find good deals…and…is it worth it??? Is it really worth the molestation....is it really worth...your SOUL???
Inquiring (germ –free personal issue) minds want to know…