The last time I tried ordering my groceries to avoid the holiday madness, they didn’t fulfill my order correctly.
If you want something done correctly, you’ve got to do it yourself.
Leaving the office, I hop into my car. Now that there’s consistently snow and ice on the ground, it’s driving season. The roads areusuallyplowed—though I hear the city is understaffed right now.
Probably approved too many holidays.
I’m assuming it’ll only get worse as the holidays get closer.Grudginglythinking of the holidays, I really should decide whether I’m shutting down the office for an unnecessary extension.
Even though I think it’s absolutely ridiculous that a holiday means people want extra days off, I know that happy workers are better workers. So, I need to really hunker down and look at the calendar.
When I get to the store, I grip the steering wheel tight. Every parking space is taken. I can only imagine how packed it is inside.
As I enter the store, I physically cringe as the Christmas music fills my ears. What a jumble of nonsense and crap.
Flying reindeers? A man whosomehowtravels the whole world in one night and gives gifts toeverychild?
Come on, let’s be realistic.
I turn my eyes upward as I walk past anything to do with wrapping paper, decorations, or gifts. My ears already feel as if they’re bleeding; I don’t need my eyes to suffer too.
After making this a quick shopping trip, I’m slowed by the longest lineeverbecause of all the holiday shoppers. I could’ve been home already if this line were even half this size.
Eventually, I get to the till. The cashier scans my items, shooting me forced smiles between each item. I know what they’re trying to butter me up for, and a few smiles won’t work.
After the last item, the cashier asks, “Would you like to make a donation to?—”
“No.” I cut them off, pulling my card out and waiting for the machine to light up.
This cashier is pushy, though. Pushier than most after being interrupted. “It’s for a good cause—those that can’t afford gifts or food at this time of year.”
“Lots of people struggle. How do you know I’m not one of them?” I fire back, gesturing toward the debit machine. “I’d like to pay now.”
All of the fake smiles disappear, and the cashier presses a few buttons until the debit machine comes to life. I pay before slipping it back in my wallet.
As I collect my bags, the cashier barks, “You know, my family used to survive off of donations to those charities. And your suit is a dead giveaway.”
Do they think that I’m going to feel bad? I donate throughout the year, just not to charities that only pop up around the holidays.
“And look at you now, working hard for your money. Good for you.” I hoist my bags into my arms, walking away from the till toward the exit. “Maybe you should buy a suit as a gift to yourself.”
Good riddance, trying to guilt me.Thisis why I hate the holidays—especially Christmas.
The automatic doors open, and I head back out into the cool winter evening. It’s already pitch black out, something that comes with the season.
It’s one thing Idon’thate about the last few months of the year. Darkness coming earlier means less people out and about in the evening.
It might be the only peaceful thing about this time of year.
Suddenly, my arm is jostled, and my groceries go tumbling to the ground. I fix my footing quickly, staring at the spilled groceries on the ground.
The cool snowflakes that float through the air instantly melt when they hit my skin, the rage burning inside me igniting my skin. Whatdumbassjust bumped into me?
“Oh my goodness, I’m so sorry,” a man apologizes, but the words are instantly followed by a bell sound.
Thatdamnedbell that those money-collectors ring outside of businesses. Whirling around, I look at the reason for my now snow-soaked groceries.
The man still rings the bell, and he of course is wearing a stupid Santa hat. He just wastedmymoney while he’s out here begging for it.
