Bits for Sunday, August 26, 2007

31.

It’s how old I’ll be in a couple of years.

It’s how many days are in seven months out of the year.

It’s approximately how many miles I will live from the nearest Hobby Lobby once they close mine.

It’s soon to be how tall my grass is – in inches – if it doesn’t stop raining enough for me to mow.

It’s how many minutes of my life I’ll never get back after being in LINE at the Wal-Mart yesterday.

Thirty-one minutes in line. My Mom said to me, “Now, are you saying you spent 31 minutes in the store from the time you walked in until the time you walked out?” Oh no, Mama. Thirty-one in line.

I’ve never seen Wal-Mart like this. Not even at Christmas when everyone arrives in unison to cram-shop. There are (I think) twenty two lanes in the store. Plus the self-checkouts. (I am principally opposed to self-checkouts because I believe they put people out of work, and I won’t be a part of that.) Yesterday there were eight lanes open (plus the self-checkouts). Eight of twenty-two. At midnight, that’s not such a big deal. At five in the afternoon on a Saturday when the entire county has converged upon the store – it is a big deal. Every lane was full to the end, sticking out into the main aisle, and starting to back up into clothing.

Keeping my voice at a respectable level, I called my Mom from my perch at the back of the checkout lane to let her know that I would probably die in checkout. Not because of a revolt or anything, but simply from the aging process. Years would come and go, and I’d still be standing there, all for the love of six eggs, a package of shredded cheese, extra wide egg noodles, four chicken breasts, sixteen ounces of sour cream, two pounds of grapes, a loaf of wheat bread, one hundred packets of Sweet N Low, and a fresh package of cardstock. I was buying that for my Christmas cards, but given that I’d be spending Christmas in line, I thought about taking it back and saving five dollars and forty-eight cents.

The man in front of me called his son. His son had gotten in line at the same time the man did – only his son is of the put-people-out-of-work mentality and went through self-checkout. In this case, putting people out of work was smart. The son was done and in the car. The man was stuck in line with me, facing the very real probability of missing his son’s high school graduation, wedding, and the birth of his first three children. Behind me was an elderly woman who told me that she didn’t tell her children she was going to Wal-Mart. Bad move. Much more time and they’d probably need to put her on the missing person’s report.

Being stuck in line for 31 minutes will make you contemplate doing things you wouldn’t ordinarily dream of doing. For example. I stood next to a Starbucks cooler. Just on the other side of the glass were rows of beautiful, creamy, caffeine-laden iced coffees. I considered drinking one and putting the jar back in the cooler. But I didn’t. I also considered dipping into the grapes and saving myself a nickel or six. It was approaching dinner time, you know. But I didn’t. I also considered having the woman behind me save my spot in line while I went to get a hair magazine to pick out my next style. I figured by the time I got out of line, my hair would resemble Rapunzel’s anyway. But I didn’t. The lady behind me probably only looked like a nice old lady. Given the chance, she would have thrown my cart out of line and moved on up herself. When you spend 31 minutes in line, it’s every person for herself.

I firmly believe I picked the slowest cashier. This belief is supported by my observance that a woman who wandered the main aisle looking for the shortest line (as if one existed – HA!) a good ten minutes after I’d been slouching over my cart watching age spots appear on my skin ended up checking out in the line next to me at the same time I stood at the register. I also picked a line with no magazines. That was a travesty. My conscience does keep me from drinking Starbucks and replacing the jar in the cooler or lightening up the bag of grapes with an afternoon snack, but it would not have kept me from catching up on the latest issue of People – and that’s a fact.

My almost-favorite moment? The man in front of me (whose son was about to become a grandfather himself, by this time) had just placed the little order-separator-stick behind his stuff so I could begin to unload my purchases onto the conveyor belt when the manager slid into our row and slapped the Lane Closed sign right behind his order.

I think she sensed a revolt from the looks of intense panic on each face (mine the most) – because she quickly said, “Everyone in line now will be able to stay.” You better believe it Missy. You already took 31 minutes of my life. You don’t want to see me after 62.

But the crowning moment was when the cashier handed me my receipt. At the very top, I read the following: WE VALUE YOUR OPINION! WE WANT TO KNOW ABOUT YOUR SHOPPING EXPERIENCE TODAY AT WAL-MART.

Really? Are you sure about that?

IN RETURN FOR YOUR TIME YOU COULD RECEIVE ONE OF FIVE $1000 WAL-MART SHOPPING CARDS.

How about in return for my time, you’ll replace my sour cream which spoiled, my grapes which rotted, and my bread, which molded ALL WHILE STANDING IN LINE??