Pick A Side

I always pick the wrong line at the grocery store.  Last week was no exception. I got in line behind a woman who was buying a bottle of soda and a bag of chips. In front of her was a family with a few boxes of mangoes and some other fruit.  “You picked the wrong line,” the lady in front of me said as I started loading my stuff onto the belt “these people are taking forever.”  The family in front of her didn’t speak English well and the cashier was trying to communicate something about how many of the mangoes qualified for whatever sale promotion the store was offering.  The woman in front of me kept badgering the family about how long they were taking, throwing her hands up in the air dramatically, huffing loudly, and being just plain rude.  It was so awkward and I felt trapped and didn’t know what to do.  When she turned to me and gave me a “You know what I’m talking about, right?” look, I smiled.  Who was I being nice to?  I should have told this woman to shove her attitude where the sun don’t shine, but I smiled.  Because I hate confrontation. Because, really, I was scared she’d yell at me, too.



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