Shopping Rage

I hate to shop! Whether it be groceries, shoes, purses or jewelry; it doesn't matter. I don't want to shop for it. I've never understood the fascination that some women have for this pastime. Pushing a noisy, rudderless, cart down over crowded aisles, searching for an illusive product with an overinflated price tag. What part of that is fun? And then the final annoyance of having to stand in line forever to pay for ones selections. More than fifteen minutes in a store and I begin to experience what Rudy affectionately calls "Shopping Rage".

Because of this problem, I limit my visits to Marcs Discount store and go only when I must purchase necessities. A couple of days ago I made the dreaded trip with a list of three simple items. In and out. That was the plan. As I exited my car, I noted no less than six people, all over the age of seventy, leaning on their carts and slowly making their way to the entrance. I groaned, "Oh God". I'd forgotten it was Wednesday, Senior discount day. No matter. I only needed three things.

Knowing the aisles well, I easily grabbed the items on my list and made a dash for the check out. My lucky day. A check out with only one gentleman in front of me and he appeared to be without a shopping cart. I pulled in behind him. Too late, I noted the pile of change he had dumped on the counter before him. All pennies, dimes and nickles. Before I could switch to another lane, my exit was blocked by two stealthy geriatric shoppers and their carts.

The gentleman before me began to slowly count his change in an attempt to purchase a pack of cigarettes. I leaned to one side and took a stance that screamed pure annoyance. After discovering he truly did have enough money to purchase the cigarettes, the clerk asked him what brand he wanted.
He said " Mavericks please."
She replied, "We don't carry that brand, sir."
"Yes you do." He retorted. "I always buy them here." They continued to argue the point.

I was in hell. My hands began to shake and my breathing was reduced to long exaggerated sighs of impatience. I rolled my eyes as I turned to the person in line behind me, seeking sympathy. I got none. As the man slowly reclaimed his change and began to exit the store, my brain shouted after him, "If you have to buy cigarettes with spare change, what difference does it make what brand it is? Asshole! Why don't you save that change? You might need it to buy yourself a new lunge someday!"

Having vented my anger, if only in my imagination, I felt a little better. I smiled smugly at the clerk, placed my four litre box of Chardonnay, a king size chocolate bar, and a four pack of Ultra Soft Charmin on the counter, and handed her a crisp new twenty dollar bill. Good for me! Now that's shopping!