We are, all of us, byproducts of our experiences and upbringing. Growing up I had a mother who knew how to make everything fun, whether it was by keeping us home when it snowed for snowmen and hot chocolates or by running covert missions as a spy family at the weekly supermarket shop (points were given for getting things in the trolley without her noticing...marks were deducted if those items were not on the official list). My Dad was less about the play and more about the deep thinking and life philosophy - although in between instilling a love of Fleetwood Mac at high volume and explaining our place in the world he still managed to teach me how to play space invaders with my car on the long trip between our farm and town. I acknowledge that I am not at all normal but I believe I was doomed to my existence by virtue of who my parents were and what they taught me.
Today was a study in one particular lesson that has always been with me. Queuing up at the State Bank when I was about eleven, I watched as the man in front of us was awful to the bank teller. Nothing that would provoke anyone to intervene, but just condescending and nasty enough to make her feel small and bring tears to her eyes. My Dad skipped a few tellers, letting others go ahead, so he was her next customer. He smiled winningly, called her by name and shook his head, sympathising over the incident with the guy before us. Then he asked her how she managed to look so good in the bank uniform and whispered conspiratorially that he always likes being served by her because she's so damn good at her job. By the time we left the tears had left her eyes and she was laughing. As we walked out he stopped me in the street and asked me if I could imagine what it must be like to stand on my feet all day in a uniform and high heels, doing pretty mundane work for very little pay. I shook my head.
"Now imagine," he said, "How much worse that job would be when the people you have to serve with a smile are arseholes. Always remember this Rebow; no matter how bad your day is, someone else's is always worse. Don't ever add to their misery by being an arsehole, no matter how badly you feel yourself."
This morning was not good for me. I woke up feeling pretty low and after having a bit of a cry I decided to pull the big girl panties up and get on with the chores for the day. And that includes the weekly food shop. I do not like malls. I do not like shopping. But I am conscious of the life lessons from my Dad, which included noticing how no one at the mall ever makes eye contact and no one ever smiles*. Consequently, I do not shop like a normal person. I like to throw my headphones on (low enough that I can hear people talking to me over the music), dance through the aisles, smile at the dead-eyed children strapped into their strollers and trolleys, and make stupid faces at people who look like they need a laugh.
I also like to skim my trolley. You know, skip along and then when you get a clear run straighten your arms and fly over the ground without touching it with your feet. I've been in trouble for this on more than one occasion by one Coles staff member (who we will call Mike**) who haunts the produce section and seems to think I'm a lawsuit waiting to happen***. Mike was ready with his frown today when I came zooming through but I smiled winningly at him and told him I'd just crashed into someone in Aldi and he'd given me his number and asked me on a date. I grinned broadly, asked Mike if he wanted to be my next crash victim and assured him a broken ankle would be worth it. He couldn't help himself, he laughed and I scooted away before he could deliver his dire predictions of spilt moo juice and financial ruin.
Next was the deli where a dozen people waited while two people went their hardest and fastest. The mood was generally...tetchy. Why can't Coles put more people on****, it's always busy on a Sunday, this is ridiculous... A byproduct of the music while I shop is that I don't mind waiting so much, time to practice my grinds. And when it was my turn I saw that I was going to be served by Chris, who is almost always there on Sunday. He called my number and I threw my hands up in the air and cheered. "Yeah! My turn! And I got CHRIS!!!"
I got a few hidden smiles and interesting looks but Chris was grinning and that was good enough. As he got my stuff together I apologised for being an idiot and said I liked being served by him because he always smiles and he's always nice to me. Plus, he gives my children samples when they're with me (although I have never had the heart to tell him that unless it's cheese they just smile politely and wait for a moment when they can covertly stuff it into my pockets or down my top). I assured him I did not imagine that the feeling was mutual because he probably thinks I'm nuts and is slightly scared of me, and that's okay.
"Nah," he grinned, "Do you know how boring it gets here? It's really nice to have someone who's actually nice to chat to for a change."
WINNING. And my final triumph came at the checkout with a particularly young looking guy called Brad. Brad was looking a bit dead so when it came to my turn I pulled my phone out and keyed up the stopwatch function.
"Sixteen items and one bag, Brad. Your colleague Michelle did that in three minutes and twenty four seconds last week. Think you can beat her?"
He stopped and frowned slightly.
"I'm sorry, what?"
"Trolley Tetris," I sighed, rolling my eyes, "Are you up for it or not? All that stuff in one bag, payment processed in under three minutes and twenty-four seconds."
He looked a bit bewildered for a second while the two kids aged about eight and ten waiting in line behind me started to giggle. Brad looked over my items, looked at the bag in his hand and then his vision cleared and he frowned in concentration.
"Challenge accepted!" he breathed, yanking the handle of the bag through the holder and getting to it like a well-oiled machine.
The kids behind me started to bounce on the spot and I started cheering him on, counting the time as he went.
"Oh no!" he cried, seizing the final item, a bottle of wine, "I'm not eighteen! We have to go to the front counter!"
"That's okay just clear the payment docket!"
"TIME!" he yelled, slamming his hand down on the button to print my receipt.
"Three minutes twelve seconds, new record!!!"
We whooped like idiots; Brad, the kids and I, before loading my stuff in the trolley to head down to the front service desk.
"Congratulations Brad, you're not even eighteen and you're now the Coles Trolley Tetris champion. How do you feel?"
"Pretty awesome, is there a medal?"
"Sadly not," I sighed, "But we're in discussions for sponsorship with management so who knows? There's hope for the future."
"Yes there is," he smiled, handing my docket over, "We might even look into getting a Best Customer Ever Award. Thanks for that, you made my day."
I cannot help but feel that at some point I will either be committed or asked to stop shopping at Coles. I don't see anyone else dancing, cheering, skimming trolleys or otherwise engaged in anything but insular behaviour. Time to think about your place in the world and your impact on those around you people. Get your headphones, grab a trolley and get some skin in the game. And, if I am committed, do me a solid favour and show this blog post to the hospital so they let me out again. I'm not crazy, just waging a war on misery. Chiefly my own.
* Particularly in December but I think we all get a hall pass for this one. Too much tinsel, too many Mariah Carey carols, toy-hungry tantruming toddlers and don't even get me started on the advertising banners.
** Names have been changed so people don't get into trouble.
*** Variously - I may crash and break myself, I may crash and break someone else, I may crash and break expensive broccoli or milk, etc.
**** People never stop to ask themselves whether they would be willing to pay an extra $2 a kilo for their deli goods if it meant there was one more person behind the counter so they were served in two minutes instead of three. What is up with that?
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