Rubber Band Man

June 5, 2007 psipsina

(Apologies to my readers who were alive in the 70s and therefore got a horrible earworm from this subject line.)

After my doctor’s appointment today I stopped at a nearby Whole Foods to get lunch.  I love Whole Foods because they pay their employees fairly well and therefore you might actually deal with a friendly human being instead of the depressed wrecks you find in standard supermarkets.

This cashier, however, was friendly to the point of chirpy.  Had I been in a worse mood, I mgiht have actually found her irritating, like the aggressively friendly elderly gentleman who hands out the Boston Metro (motto:  Boston’s worst daily newspaper, which is quite an accomplishment) at the Davis Square T and won’t take either lack of eye contact or a polite “No, thank you” as an answer.  (Dear Elderly Gentleman, In the unlikely event you are reading this, I hate the Boston Metro.  I wouldn’t line my catbox with it.  And please stop going out of your way to be friendly.  I don’t want to talk to you.  I don’t have to talk to you.  You are not just some nice man.  You are the representative of a company that I don’t want to do business with.  I don’t want to talk to you.  Leave me alone.)

Oh, where was I?  Back to the Whole Foods cashier.

Whole Foods seems to have a corporate policy that anything you buy in a flimsy plastic container gets a rubber band.  Nothing wrong with this; in fact, it’s kind of helpful if the flimsy package also contains something leaky (soup) or fragile (eggs).

Today, I bought a lot of stuff in those containers.  I got sushi for today’s lunch.  I got a salad for tomorrow’s lunch.  I got a fruit salad for a snack.  I got a little package of chocolate chip rugelach from the bakery.  I got two packages of blueberries on sale.

Snap, snap, snap, snap went the rubber bands.  Everything got a rubber band, including my three identical packs of gum.  I thought she was going to rubber band the mango and the asparagus, but she didn’t.  The yogurt somehow escaped a trussing, too.

Dear cashier, the cookies did not need a rubber band.  The worst that could’ve happened it that the package might have popped open and I might have had to fix the six little cookies out of the bag and put them back into the container.


Entry Filed under: bureaucracy, earworm, food, music, rant, rubber, society

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