On a whim, I thought I could use my lunch break to pick up a few items at Whole Foods. After exiting the parking garage, I was met with heavy road congestion thanks to Houston's ever-present construction. In retrospect, this was the first of many signs for me to turn around and spend my lunch hour quietly resting my head on my desk.
Twenty-five minutes later and 3.28 miles down the road, I finally squeeze into a parking space. I grab my enviro-friendly canvas tote from the back seat and pass through the sliding glass doors. It is my sincerest hope to purchase four items and be on my way in less than 10 minutes.
Sigh.
The patrons on this particular afternoon can be described thusly: old and un-fucking-believably-slow or young and hipsterish with an aura of unflappable superiority.
And now, an aside:
I loathe hippies, hicks, and SUV's. I hate men who wear sportcoats with jeans or any manner of a shoe tassel. I hate velour tracksuits and high fructose corn syrup. I hate people who mumble, randomly sing in public, ride their brakes or stand to close to me in the greeting card aisle. I hate cutesy ringtones, teenagers, the assholes invariably sitting behind me at a movie or standing in front of me in line. I hate hangnails, perms, and working for a living. And I Hate. People. Who. Stare.
Enter two Gen Y-ers accessorized within an inch of their lives from the top of their kitschy white framed sunglasses down to the last hole worn through their Vans slip ons.
Let it be said their is nothing inherently interesting about a woman on her lunch break buying a loaf of bread and a box of veggie burgers.
But this did not stop these two, who stared at me as though I asked the cashier for a price check on enriched uranium.
At first I tried to ignore them, then shuffled uncomfortably in my place, then turned my back towards them, but still their damn stares were boring holes through me. Unable to stand it any longer, I turned around to face them. We locked eyes the way villains do in action movies and then, and then...nothing.
Obviously, I hadn't thought my feeble retaliation through.
So there I was, staring at someone because they were staring at me. Feeling (and looking) like a total ass. The cashier held my bag out to me and I arched my eyebrow mysteriously at the two youths (because, if you already look like an wanker, you might as well go big or go home), turned on my heel and left, to spend the drive back wondering why I even ventured out in the first place.
