Bumping Uglies with Shoppers

Usually the shrill squeals, grunts, and rattles of highly-used shopping carts can be heard an aisle away. As hundreds of reluctant wheels struggle against the floor, they can even be heard  over the screaming tot putting on his best performance for Frosted Flakes...

Until you don't hear one:

Well, I did NOT hear this buggy approaching, neither did I see the maybe 4-foot-10 person willing it along.

Folks,
I made a slight collision with a Walmart shopper. Thankfully the actual impact belied our speed, as we both seemed to be moving with a sense of urgency. (It was just a few ticks past noon--seemingly national lunch hour, which is basically a rush hour.)

Clearly she was a patron; I was only there for the restroom. Not sure why I felt the need to share that last bit, but it's true. Since the guys took an unusually long lunch, and I needed only to have a go at the restroom--I brought my lunch today!--I made an adventure out of finding the perfect place. Walmart it was. I drank lots of Powerade today, ok?

In all actuality I only nudged the front of her cart, causing it to veer an innocuous five centimetres to my left, her right. Perspective is important, right? At most our combined energy may have 'ruffled' a bag of Lay' s. But even that is a stretch, as we all know those bags are 70 percent air.

Pardon my digression. I've had minimal coffee.

...Anyhow, we collided, and upon our very slight impact, all of my preconceptions about the typical Walmart shopper surfaced--so I braced for it: the mumbles, creative insults, a drunken fist, maybe even a prison shank? Don't judge me, because A), memes, and B), television. Milliseconds after impact I visualise Michelle's number (my lawyer), which is silly because she's not a defense attorney. :)

Fight or Flight? Neither, civility instead:

Because my limbic system, at this time, chose to commandeer the rest of my brain, an apology on my behalf was severely delayed. Though, when I did think to say sorry for our little bodily fender bender, she had beat me to it. Looking up from her receipt, (distraction, the reason we crashed), she said, 'Lo siento papito.' I replied, 'No problem ma'am, I'm sorry about that.'

Because I'm an idiot, I didn't realise that she announced her apology in Spanish until after I had expressed my own sorrow. So, with my caveman Spanish (use your imagination), I made light-hearted jokes, at which she laughed, and wished me well in an earnest, and grandmotherly fashion.

She was a kind lady. Gently aged, I saw that time had put wrinkles around her honest smile and warm eyes. Apparently she has been wearing them both for a long time, and she wore them pridefully.

Lesson to myself and anyone who accepts it: Chin-up and put your best self forward; you never know who you're going to 'run into'.

Cheers and love you meme it,
Derrick

Not to Envy

In a paradoxical way, I am jealous of the ignorant, the passionless, and robotic.

Perhaps ignorance is bliss after all. For, how can you suffer if you're comfortably snuggled up to the blind warmth of oblivion? How can one truly grieve failure if one doesn't know his unhindered potential?

I envy that their hearts are impregnable to the mite-sized seeds of love that could be sowed from the mere interaction with a stranger. Seeds that would germinate and test the material and capacity of their tenderness--the mind's heart.

Only sometimes I wish I were like the passionless: the ones who lack the ability to be awestruck at the predictive powers of physics, and at how DNA sequencing illustrates a beautiful, ordered hierarchy from mankind to plant life. (Science champions the notion and reality of interconnectedness. Ideological barriers are man-made.) Imagine never having known of the beautiful journey of making love to witnessing the birth of it. You'd never have to suffer it's loss.

Imagine not knowing that you are allowed to think freely. You wouldn't be subjected to the wrath of the robots for doing so. You wouldn't be castigated for having dissenting ideas in a mini-world of radical conformists.

But that's a life I don't want. I'd rather feel. I'm a being. I'm sentient. I'd rather make love than lose it. I'd rather laugh, learn, and live; allow my heart to be riddled with emotions. Easily, I choose to remain hyper-aware, cognizant of the fact that I'll witness the details of pain as well as the beautiful things. Without a doubt, I'll trade no tangible thing for my imagination--and as of this sentence, I'm sure that the aforementioned jealousy was just a fleeting figment of just that--my imagination Because I do NOT envy them.

Have a good one lads and lovelies,
Derrick