We're currently sitting still, waiting on a cargo to be fixed (found) for us from our one customer here in Philly. I'm down here for just one refiner's pleasure, and it seems they don't have much need of us right now. I know that will change rapidly at some point, when they'll give us just a few hours' notice that there's a cargo waiting, but for now, we've been moored at a lay berth for the weekend, and I've had enough sitting around. I want to be working.
To fill the time, now that we're caught up on maintenance and tidying up the place, I've been walking into Philadelphia to buy something every day. It's a 2-mile jaunt through the industrial (read: butt-ass fugly) waterfront one way to the nearest store, so I'm getting my exercise- mostly because my sneakers are shit, and I have to wear a pair of heavy workboots that wear like cement shoes.
Today's jaunt brought us up to an Aldi, a discount foreign grocery store- the kind of grocery store that has no name brand items, and doesn't supply bags- you have to bring your own or buy some hemp-looking bullshit bag for a buck. Basically the kind of place where you can absolutely save some bucks to buy staple items.
I guess this post makes me aware that I'm a snob. I love to save a buck. I'm cheap, like the budgie, on a good day. I don't mind this store. It's the goddamned people in it that make me wish for mandatory sterilization of people I don't like. Sure, I can shop there and save $10-20 bucks, but I walk out a total fucking misanthrope, and what price will I pay for not spending 30 minutes wishing for a plague of locusts to descend on everyone within eyeball distance.
I'm not sure what it is about rubbing shoulders with the downtrodden masses, but being the only person who says 'excuse me' and doesn't hip-check his way down the aisle is a real downer. Being stuck behind multiple 400-lb women in yoga pants makes me soggy and hard to light, especially when they spend 90% of their time stopped in the middle of the goddamned store aisle blocking traffic while they chew their cud and try to decide on which blend of fake Crystal Light defines them as a person. I'm all like "Excuse me... excuse me! Can I get by you? Thanks!" in my polite indoor voice, all the while wishing they would install a fucking weigh station or a truck lane so Mrs. Foodstamps can get a citation for being more than 8'6" across the beam without a goddamned yellow sign.
As a fellow overweight person, I am sensitive to the plight of the vertically-challenged. However, being a fat person in a world made up mostly of non-obese people, I respond by being polite, light on my feet and very careful about where I am standing or moving. If I collide with someone, they tend to move further than I will, so it's only fair. So it makes me annoyed when someone who looks like they maybe ate someone my size for lunch doesn't have the human decency to at least be polite, or even courteous when they're orbiting their way down the store aisle, I get bent out of shape. I armor myself with polite language, a friendly smile, and momentum. If someone is going to pretend that there isn't a 6'2" (I was wearing logging boots) 220+lb man quietly asking for safe passage, I'm going to take a step back, get a running start, and shoot between said Leviathan and the shelving, and do so fast enough to achieve escape velocity and avoid getting stuck in orbit by her gravitational field. It works, although I will end up with friction burns. And then I can get to the far end of the aisle where I'll have to do the same thing again with another gatekeeper pouring over the cracker selection like an archeologist at a dig.
I don't care about people's economic condition. I care about politeness in public, which is all about having some class. The Po' People Sto' is full of people with no class, which is why I go out of my way to shop under normal circumstances with the middle class, or acting-middle class, anyhow.
At any rate, I got 2 bags of tortillas and a nifty hemp bag for $4. It took me 30 minutes to work my way from the tortillas to the checkout, and now I have PTSD. Screw Philadelphia.
Obviously a Sherlock Holmes fan...
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