Life Amongst The Encapsulated, Part One

I'm struggling a bit with my compulsion to be pissed off at stupid people. Oh, yeah, and with telling them that I think they're dim in oh so many ways too.

It used to be that when I would finally express my opposing opinion to someone about something they had done, I would feel proud of myself for having "stood up" for what I thought was right. And it was a perfectly valid thing to kvell about, having not been able to say much for years (other than blurting what Elmo would not be allowed to express on Sesame Street), mainly because I didn't know what I thought - I just knew what I felt!

Blurting frustration was actually cool when I lived in Lower Manhattan, because there it was the cultural norm to let loose a torrent of expletives at someone, feel the catharsis, then move on - "next!" A friend or even non-acquaintance at work would yell at you at 4:00 and at 4:10 ask you if you needed a coffee because they were about to make a run downstairs. Life made so much more sense to me then...

But here in the Pacific Northwest? Not so much. Yet I have learned to adjust, and actually feel I have found a happy medium between yelling and politically-correct nicey-nicey. What triggers flipped this again-found compulsion to "tell it like it is," My Way?

One is that I got fed up with my ex-sister-in-law and finally expressed what's the what for me - because I became willing to totally burn that bridge if that's what was necessary to maintain my sanity. But instead of catharsis, I find myself triggered back into blanket resentment of all things passive-aggressive. And now I can see them EVERYWHERE (because I'm looking for them, right?). Sounds like my happy medium tool needs honing, doesn't it?

The other is that anyone originally from the East Coast can only expect themselves to be able to take so much of the detached, Pill People before having to spend a bit of time in the "Move It Along, Center-of-the-Universe Person" penalty box.

Tonight I'm at PCC after walking Greenlake with a friend. PCC is an mid-scale, public food co-op where everyone but me knows that you're not going to find beef chili in the soup aisle. Because PCC people don't eat beef, or if they do, they will not admit this whilst amid these four organic walls. So I walk, I look, I find other things I want, feel a bit silly for a moment for thinking PCC would carry Hormel Manly-Man Chili, and then get on line to pay. In the Express, Five Item lane, because I have five items and because I'm a little late picking up my kid.

And of course, tonight I find myself behind the most granola of women; younger than I am with wild gray hair, stuffed up under an undyed llama handknit cap, no make-up, Gortex organic compost farmer suit (complete with aroma) and all her own "Buy Local" recycled cotton grocery bags (which I have too, okay? I just forget to bring them with me!)

First, let me explain the aforementioned term "Pill People." Many times, everywhere certainly, but very predominant here in Seattle, one comes across people who appear to operate as though they are the only people on stage with no audience present. Much of what they do in public is done as though they live in their own capsule, that they needn't consider what affect their actions (or NON-actions) have on other people. They are encapsulated.

I won't EVEN get into the driving here - see future post Life Amongst The Encapsulated, Part Two.

Back to granola chick. She has four items - check - she bags them herself - check - in her own bags - check - should be an express transaction, right? Wrong. When she is done bagging them as though each and every item needs thorough inspection, followed by a little squeeze of grandmotherly affection and the arrangement and rearrangement of the balance of the sack, with the label facing toward the cashier, she pulls out a large cloth bag from under her coveralls, carefully unties the three different pull-ties she's got closing the bag and finally, after rummaging a bit, pulls out a little cardboard folder. This is where she keeps her coupons. It's thick as a brick. She flips through each and every one, individually, stopping to lick her finger after each, and finally finds one. Okay, not done. Flip, flip, ooo! Little appreciate noise with adoring look, flip, flip two. On and on, three, four, five. She has four items and five coupons. She puts the bag back under her coveralls and we think she's done. Even the extraordinarily patient organic cashier is clearing his throat and breaking a sweat at this point. She then begins to pat herself down in an attempt to find the pocket she left her PCC Member card in. There's a lot of pockets in a Gortex organic compost farmer suit. The cashier picks up the phone and calls for an express backup cashier. Doesn't phase our girl.

I cannot go on, seriously. I cannot tell you how she pays in cash and feels the itch to find exact change. Or drops it once she does. Or how I don't change lines because I know that once I do, she'll be done and I'll have waited and raised my blood pressure for nothing. And so I finally lose it and qualify for the penalty box:

"Move It Along, Center-of-the-Universe Person!"

You can hear a pin drop. No one agrees or disagrees, they all become still and stare. And there I stand, having busted their capsules wide open.

So I smile, because that's what my mom taught me to do when you don't know what else to do, and I leave.

But I did know what I wanted to do. Buy my groceries and go home. Times like this? I wonder where home really is.

Today I'm grateful for at least the IDEA of restraint and progress made thus far.