Ode to the Waiter
Oh, how a simple, pleasant visit to the grocery store can be so quickly spun awry. For what reason, you may ask? The waiters . . . I hate the waiters.
The waiters I loath, however, are not the gentle people who bring good fare and friendliness to my restaurant table. No. The aforementioned are quite the opposite. I'm referring to the parking spot prowlers, the people who cruise the entire lot looking for that one golden space. You know which spot I'm talking about: the one just beyond the handicap preserve. Waiters unscrupulously follow exiting shoppers to their vehicles and snatch their soon-to-be vacancy. I despise getting stuck driving behind one. What's worse? When they wait for you. . .
You can practically feel their exhaust breathing down your neck and their glaring lights on the back of your head. What do you do? Move faster in fear? Move slower in spite? I choose spite. And I have a few words for all the waiters out there:
You are the cloud for which I have to find the silver lining.
You are the dark side for which I need a bright.
You are the bad ending to a good book.
You are the lump in my pillow and the lumpy pillow that replaced it.
You are the bad apple in the basket and the fly in my soup.
Bottom line, sometimes I'd rather grow my own corn, raise my own chickens, and bake my own breakfast cereal than have someone wait behind me for my spot while I'm loading groceries in my car. So for the love of all things deli and produce, please, just park a little further and walk. You probably need it.