I don't even come close, of course, with my lowly black Monsac bag and my regulation Clarks sandals. I dress for comfort, not for speed. (Although I'd just like to know how the hell a $348 purse is unworthy. It's gorgeous, damn it.)
In produce, I feared for the end of the world, given the fervor that the other ladies displayed as they pushed each other, and me, out of the way so that they might be first to grab the dill, parsley, and golden beets. Two women, oblivious to big 'ol me in my tie-dyed shirt, combed over every box of mache, rejecting them all as I tapped my foot, unable to reach the organic herb salad mix and unwilling to say "Excuse me" for a fourth time. I was rammed in the ass and the heel, twice, and had my cart yanked out of my hands by a matron who needed to get to the oranges before I did.
Most of the men were just along for the ride. I babbled with one at the deli counter, as a primadonna demanded tastes of at least four meats and then, noting a line of customers patiently waiting for designer bologna, decided to tell the clerk how the last order just wasn't quite right. We both gave up.
In the bread section, I nearly fell asleep waiting for two teens to move their starry-eyed faces from in front of the self-serve roll bins. When I finally pushed my way in, their father clucked. At me. I resisted the urge to pelt him with a 7-seed whole grain puck. Or the urge to buy it, stale bit that it was.
But all was redeemed by the cashier, who was friendly, gentle, and quick. And might I add, a person with a disability. How cool that Whole Foods looks at ability and personality. I was impressed.
Of course, I had my horrid snob moment, too. In the parking lot, after loading my trunk and wanting nothing more than to pop into my car and drink my bottle of acai juice, I saw a man putting carts into the bin and asked him if he wanted another. And then I saw the keys in his hand. He was a customer, not a workerbee.
I was mortified and apologized, and he laughed. I said it was his good deed for the day, but the truth is, I was an ass. If it's any comfort, the acai juice tasted like cough syrup. Bad cough syrup.
Bad, sugar-free cough syrup.