We were shopping at a grocery store that specializes in selling prepared home made dinners. What a great way to start a weekend: with a full refrigerator of different dinner choices with no need to buy separate ingredients, carry home heavy packages, sort and put them all away.
My husband Harvey and I don’t have similar food preferences and rarely want to eat the same foods, which makes meal preparation quite a hassle. This store eliminates the necessity of cooking two separate meals every evening while still enjoying a comfortable evening at home.
The first counter featured a wide array of entrees. These selections included containers of Italian meatballs and Stuffed Cabbage. Next to it were about six kinds of chicken preparations: Southern Fried Chicken and the Chickens Murphy, Caccatore, Parmesan, Oreganata and Arroz con Pollo. As we wandered down the aisle, labels of our many choices filled our minds and rumbling stomachs with delightful possibilities.
The first package to make contact with a hungry hand was a serving of Stuffed Cabbage. But in his haste to pull a container of the delectable treat free from the others in the case, my husband inadvertently pushed in the plastic top of the container, causing the sauce to spill over the top.
It would have been easy to simply leave the damaged, squished container in the case and select a perfect, sealed replacement in its place. But my girl scout morality caused me to catch the eye of the store employee stocking that case, and confess the mistake of our ways. He simply said, “Give it to me; I’ll fix it.” So I did and he did, and Harvey and I continued on our way.
After a long trek through the aisles, filling our cart as we went along, I decided to visit the rest room before heading back to the car and the long, pot-holed ride home.
As I opened the swinging door leading to the back room where the rest rooms were located, I saw the man who had taken our damaged package earlier that morning. He was walking out of the work area with both hands full of more packaged meals to put into the counters.
I backed up to make room for him to exit the area, and held my side of the swinging door open so he could pass by.
At that point he moved to the other side of the swinging door and kicked it open with his foot. Then he walked back out to the main shopping area without making eye contact or showing any recognition of my courteous gesture of holding the door for him.
So, my blogging friends, what do you think?
Was I insulted?