Slow…as…molasses


You know the type.

It’s painful to watch them.  They move in slow motion.  Waiting for them is like waiting for the Heinz Ketchup to move down and out the bottle.  I mean, come on people!  Get a move on!

I’m all about not rushing to get things done, or to get places, or with experiences.  Enjoy the moment, kind of a thing.  But when you have the capacity to move physically faster, you can if you want to.  It’s nice to stroll slowly and take in the sights, holding hands with a loved one.  But is that the only speed?  Can you only walk that fast all the time?  Can you only move that fast?  From what I can see, there are no physical limitations…or mental limitations!  What if there was a tiger chasing you and you had to run?  Then what??

Then the tiger would have a feast, that’s what.

Slow ass people.  They also tend to be rude!  I’ve experienced this several times at the grocery store…where I’ve been in line behind both men and women (slowness is not gender specific!), who are achingly slow.  I’ll use a woman today…as women are usually more anal retentive and therefore a little slower.

It takes her years to unload all the tv dinners, tomato juice, milk of magnesia, and frozen corn dogs onto the conveyor belt.  She looks at the magazines in between grabbing things from her cart.  She shakes her head and makes a kind of pfffssht sound.  I think it means she dislikes the photo of Bristol Palin in her dancing with the stars gossip.  She’s the ones that moves your items and places the divider bar in between her things and yours…when there is already a very clear distinction.  She doesn’t  move  her body up when you’re carrying way more than you can and need to set something down.  She stands firm, pawing the tic tacs and gum that she will never ever buy.  She sees you…of course she sees you.  She pretends not to notice on purpose.

She’s also the type that doesn’t have her other necessary things out.  No wallet out, no coupons, nothing.  Once all is up on the conveyor, she watches the checkout girl’s every move…watches her ring everything up to make sure she’s doing her job right.  There’s no way she can.  No one can do anything right with slow, rude, judgmental people in their lines.  She relays the total amount to be paid.  Oh, she realizes they have all these coupons that may have expired yesterday and she and the cashier argue why they cannot accept them and why she should be able to use them.  Then the fricking value card on her keyring.  So she has to fish around in her gigantic purse for her keys, which shouldn’t be hard to find.  They’re the ones with the Austin Powers keychain.  The one that says Yeah, Baby, when you push the crooked English teeth.  The poor checkout girl.  She’s doing a great job not throwing those corn dogs onto the floor and stomping on them screaming here’s your fucking coupon!

Finally…it’s time to pay.  She either is going to write a check…or dig out exact change from her pockets of crumpled bills and stray coins.  The exact change is annoying.  The check can sometimes be worse though.  There’s the whole writing in the number amount, and then the damned longhand number in word form, thirty-three dollars and 45 out of 100 cents——————— then the date.  What’s the date?  Oh my, the 23rd already? Yes, lady, and it’s going to be the 24th by the time we end this transaction!  Then the verification of the information on the check with the driver’s license…and she can’t get the license out of the wallet and the cashier can’t see through the old, yellowed vinyl.  Phone number?  There is always debate when it comes time for the phone number.  Do you really need my phone number?  I don’t like to give it out.  Do you sell it?  I hate when telemarketers call me.

Finally, the end seems near.  Her things are almost all in the bag.  Oh, could you double bag that?  With paper inside of plastic? Sure.  Is there any please or thank you?  Nope.  Not a one.  She’s got her bag, she’s off…the cashier breathes a sigh of relief…oh, no!  Wait.  She’s turned around….shes. coming.  back!

Was that my pen or yours that I used to write that check?  Ok, I’ll just take that and be on my way.

It was totally not her pen.

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