I got a karmic thump today. Okay, maybe it was more like a karmic flick, but in the eye or mouth where it hurts, not just in the ear.
At 11:57 a.m. I walk into my boss's office (who also just happens to be one of my best friends since I was 20) and announce that I am about to do something bad.
"What?" She asks me, "Like eat cheesecake?"
"Nope. Worse," I tell her. "I'm going shopping at WalMart."
As most people who know me understand (especially Lisa), there are three places to never take me: church, a zoo, and WalMart. I feel more guilty shopping at WalMart than I do breaking 7 of the 10 commandments. And I'm not going to say which ones.
But today I had a laundry list of justifications--really really important justifiably justifiable things I needed at WalMart that I can't get anywhere else. Like a thermal lunchbox. I need this lunchbox because, as it turns out, the people at my new jobby job are take-your-lunch kinda people. I'm a go-to-lunch kinda girl and I don't really understand the take-your-lunch phenomenon, but I have to play along. And obviously I need the thermal lunchbox thingy because it's somehow magic and will turn me into a take-your-lunch kinda girl.
So I head out happily humming the "I Kissed a Girl and I Liked It" song even though I have the dreaded WalMart-a-phobia starting to collect in my nerves. I just have a feeling something bad is going to happen. If only Target was closer!
I distractedly wander into WalMart and yank on one of the stuck-together dirty gray carts which proceeds to smash my finger as it flies loose. And although my finger is throbbing, I don't dare put it in my mouth because I've just touched that germ-infested WalMart disease factory. I stick my hand under my arm and march in, squinting at the helpful merchandise-describing signs that say things like DIAPERS, CAKE MIX, PET SUPPLIES and PAINT. I see no signs for thermal lunchbox thingies. I have to call Lisa and ask her where I would find the lunchboxes.
"By the auto parts and camping supplies," she says.
OF COURSE! Where else would they be? So, with one hand, I push my dirty gray cart over toward the sign that says AUTO PARTS and happen to run across a whole isle of lunchbox thingies. But to my despair they all have either Hannah Montana, Cars, or Spiderman on them and I just can't do it. I've had enough Hannah Montana to last me for a while.
So, without the lunchbox thingy, I head for the doors. I realize that as much as I don't want to, I'm going to have to run into the WalMart bathroom on my way out. Somehow while I'm in there, the hem of my long, black skirt gets sucked into the toilet for a second during the automatic turbo flush. It's probably because of that heavy safety pin holding the hem together. Classy!
I have to make my way through the 100 degree parking lot with the wet hem of my skirt slapping me in the ankles as I walk. It's so hot that the cool, damp hem would feel good under other, less gross, humiliating, and disgusting circumstances.
As I climb into my car and dejectedly start to drive, I pull into the world's longest left-turn lane and I'm waiting for the light to change when BAM, the lady in back of me runs right into my car. What? You have got to be kidding! I swear. I'm never going to WalMart again. And I mean it. (Anybody want a peanut?)
The Short Version
14 hours ago