Sometimes the only way I can find to get a few minutes of peace, quiet, and time to myself is to go to the grocery store. Yes, ironically, I go to a public place with a bunch of other people in order to be alone. Those of you who have ever lived with a three year-old who wants to be with you all the time, no matter what you're doing, will understand this premise.
I took a reprieve from being needed the other night by going to the store to pick up a few necessities. It was great. I lingered in the produce department, mulled over whether to buy the whole wheat crackers or the onion-flavored ones, and generally reveled in knowing that this was an environment in which no one was going to ask me any questions. Or so I thought.
Register #3 had the shortest line - just one lady ahead of me - so that's where I went. As I was waiting, I could hear Lori, the cashier, asking the woman ahead of me if she was in Weight Watchers. I looked up and saw that she was buying WW brand yogurt, so I figured the question was a little less-invasive than I'd first thought. I started unloading my stuff onto the conveyor belt. Soon Lori was picking up the cottage cheese this woman was buying, reading over the label with her, and talking to her as if they were sorority sisters, telling her that if she bought the 1% instead, she could save SO many points.
Uh, oh. Lori was one of those employees - the ones who go beyond the training manual conversations (Did you find everything OK? Paper or plastic? Have a great evening!) and actually talk to you. So you have to talk back and stuff. Crap. She was gonna kill my "me time", and I knew it.
When my turn came, Lori whipped through things pretty quickly, until she got to the cheese. Or, more correctly, cheese product. You see, I have a bit of a thing for Kraft Fat Free Singles. I find their sharp cheddar flavor particularly to my liking.
Anyhow, Lori scoops up the Kraft Singles and starts inspecting the label, "Oh, are these good?" I answer politely, 'cause that's what I was raised to do, and Lori takes up two minutes of my precious "me time" to quiz me about my fake cheese. I felt like I was being interviewed by Mike Wallace. We discussed texture, flavor, calcium content, how real cheese is three points per serving, etc.
I started to feel very self-conscious as she rung up the rest of my groceries. Part of me wanted to explain to her that the brownie mix was really for my child. We're planning on making a big, heart-shaped brownie for Valentine's, I swear! I quietly hoped she'd noticed all the fresh vegetables I was buying. How I buy ingredients rather than pre-packaged meals. For some dumb reason I wanted her and her Weight Watchers cult-addled mind to approve of my groceries. She was judging every item I'd bought, and I felt so stinkin' aware of it that I wanted to scream. So much for my relaxing sojourn to the store.
I guess that a job as a grocery check-out clerk is probably one of the worst ones you could have when on Weight Watchers. You're surrounded by food every minute you're there, and you can't help but browse people's carts in the process, I guess. And if you happen to be a talker to boot, well ...
It reminds me of when I worked at Dairy Queen - way back in the day. About a third of the girls who worked there were bulimic. Seriously. They had HUGE issues with food and had gotten a job that included access to twenty-pound bags of Oreos. Slow nights were awful, watching them daintily nibble on a salad they'd brought for dinner - and then pound down a quart or two of soft-serve and a veritable buffet of toppings. Then they'd disappear into the bathroom for a while.
I didn't know what to say to them. It was obvious what was happening, and they were girls I considered friends, but I just didn't want to get into it with them. I'd seen enough after-school specials to know it was serious and that I probably couldn't help, and maybe just a tiny, shallow part of me liked being able to judge them. Just a bit. I feel tremendously guilty about that now, but that's who I was at seventeen.
They say you shouldn't judge a man until you've walked a mile in his shoes. Maybe there should be a companion statement about not judging a woman until you've experienced her relationship with food.
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