Jalapeno Bird

As we were leaving Target today, I scanned the checkout counter lanes to see who I wanted to check out our purchases.  I saw an old black woman, and a bunch of teenagers.  I went straight to the old black woman, because her line was short and she seemed like she would be sweet to Griffith and ask about Savannah.  Besides getting along with my kids, she seemed like she would be the fastest at checking us out.  Not because she was old, but because she had a smart, confident way about her.  Seemed like the most logical choice.  As I turned the corner into her lane, Nathan said, “Hey, lets go over here, her lane is shorter.”  I said, “um, okay.”  immediately, and went exactly where I was told.  I had a sinking, sick feeling in my stomach as I neared her lane.

           

 She was a very short, blonde teenager in glasses.  I cannot read auras, but I can sense mental illness, and sometimes I see mental illness illuminating off of a person in different shades and colors.  Hers was grey and red and screamed, “I am a cutter”.  I could tell from just a glance that she had severe emotional problems.  I actually figured this out from just seeing the back of her head.  In a split second, I knew exactly what would happen, we would be in that line for the rest of our lives (or at least, for 15 minutes longer than we should have).  But, just like a faithful dog running to its owner, I went where I was told.  As we got into the lane, a number of things went wrong.  A woman with a giant 3 ring binder for her checks and financial information, was scribbling away in it and asking for the teenage cutter checkout girl to clear up some miscalculations with her.  By the time the efficient psycho with the giant binder got completely checked out, my son was getting a talking to for hitting my husband, and I was in the line trying to keep my infant from crying louder.  The teenage cutter apologized for the wait, and began checking out our groceries as if she was a Geisha performing a poetic dance that involved uber-slow scanning of each product.  Her hand moved like it was underwater.  I watched sadly, in awe, and glanced enviously over at the old black woman with her jolly guttural laugh, checking out customers at the speed of light.  Just when I thought things couldn’t be more grim, she held up our jalapenos and said, “what are these?”  This is an unacceptable question for someone who lives in the State of Texas.  The jalapeno is practically the state bird here.  Then she held up a lime and asked, “what is this?” as she was trembling and planning her next self-sacrificial cutting session.  How could you not know what a lime is?  She looked well nourished, well clothed, educated, and probably from a rich family.  The only people who should not know what a lime is are blind people that confuse them with lemons or tangerines.  By this point I began glaring at my Husband.  But I quickly realized it is not his fault that I did not insist that we stay in the old black woman’s line.  That is my fault, and it has been an issue of mine my whole life. I let people make decisions for me, even when I am not at all okay with it.  Not all the time, not with everyone, but I do do it a lot, and it is definitely holding me back and making me angsty.  I am going to experiment with being a forceful bitch from now on.  I will let you know how that goes.

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