I Threw My Shoe At Someone Today

Comical story about a frustrated shopper:

I love walking through the produce department of my supermarket. There's always some lady squeezing tomatoes hard enough to pop them, and remarking loudly, "They're all bruised!" Every now and then there's a kid taking the head of lettuce back outof the cart as soon as his parent puts it in and turns their back. Some idiot always tries to grab the orange at the bottom of the pyramid, resulting in an avalanche. And most importantly, it's the shortest route to the cookie aisle.

So there I am, walking along, keeping eyes and ears open for the produce drama of the day, when I experience the kind of pain that causes bright lights to flash behind your eyelids. Someone, a very reckless, hateful, and terrible someone, rammed my heel with their cart. I took a deep breath before turning to see who the guilty party was. An older lady, not quite old but getting there, was the only person nearby. She pointedly ignores my glare. I twist to look at my heel, which feels like it's bleeding even though it's not. The lady reaches around me to grab a sack of potatoes, sighing loudly. Apparently, the heel-abusing bitch is being inconvenienced by my wimpiness. I return an equally loud and impatient sigh before reaching down to unbuckle the strap that's digging into my injured heel. While I'm down there, I imagine myself getting up, platform in hand, and whacking that mean old biddy something fierce. The strap slips from between my fingers as I savor my evil daydream. I stand back up and the lady is gone.

I hobble (more from the loosened shoe strap than from my busted heel) to the cookie aisle, only to find that same awful lady, loading up on MY cookie. She grabs the final package of NutterButters before pushing onward, probably to crash into another innocent's foot. I glance behind the Oreos, thinking a wayward pack of NutterButters has made its way into the wrong row. Of course, there aren't any left and there's not a stockperson in sight. I settle for some caramel apple Fig Newtons (which are, consequently, as unedible as they sound) and make my way to checkout.

Guess who I'm behind? Some teenager. Guess who's in front of him? The cursed, wretched old woman. She proceeds to continue to unwittingly annoy and aggravate me, by saying, "Oh! I think I have a coupon for that!" and "Are you sure the Fiji apples are $1.19 a pound?" and "I meant to get 2% milk, can someone get me another?" We wait for a bagger to lose paper-rock-scissors and thereby be forced to run the whole milk back for the lower fat version. The lady pays by check, of course, and wants to write it for $50 over, of course. After she pays, she says, "Can I get a carton of Marlboro Lights?" Finally the cashier says something.

"Why didn't you get them before you paid?"

"Well, I forgot."

We all wait for the cashier to get a carton of cigarettes. The lady stares straight ahead, not bothering to give anyone an apologetic smile or anything. I shift my weight to my sore foot, forgetting about the loosened strap. My ankle twists. More pain, more hate for the terrible woman. I have another daydream, one where I kick my leg Rockette style, sending my shoe flying through the air and square on her head. It gets me through the dark times.

After the lady writes another check because heaven forbid she take the faster route and hand over some of the cash she got back last time, she finally heads off. The automatic doors swallow her up and I revel in the fact that I will never see her again.

The teenager is out in two seconds, as am I. I glance around the parking lot, unsure of where I've parked. One loud beep later, and the old lady drives by, nearly flattening me. I grit my teeth, but am consoled when I spot my new car a few rows down. I head in that direction when I notice a runaway cart, undoubtedly the old lady's, heading straight for the driver's side of my baby. Before I can open my mouth, it crashes against the door. I quicken my pace, only to stop a few paces later. A man is walking up to my car. He tries the handle. I twist my ankle again in an unfortunately placed pothole. Which reminds me...

Heavy shoe, already pre-loosened.

Car thief within throwing distance.

I lift my foot from the ground and grab the shoe. In my mind, I am beginning to think the old bitch was actually an angel in disguise, busting my heel and making me loosen my strap, not to mention giving me quite the temper with her dimwitted ways, all in preparation to my standoff with the carjacker. My shoe is ready and I am pissed. I wind. I throw.

The shoe flies through the air, toward the man still fumbling with my car's handle.

"I hope it hits him and not that damn handicapped sign..." I think.

Wait. Handicapped sign.

Not my car. Elderly handicapped man attempting to unlock his own car door. Shoe is starting its ascent.

It lands a foot behind him. He never notices.

Would you believe less than fifteen minutes later, I get stuck behind that lady at the gas pump? And that she can't figure out how to use the credit card payment method?

I hate her.