I stopped off at the grocery store after work Saturday, still, of course, in my scrubs that mark me as a Healthcare Person.
I was in the dairy section as a large man using a walker huffed and puffed and sweated past me. He burst out in frustation (to me): "WHERE is the sliced cheese?!?" (Since I'm a nurse, of course, I know everything and am trustworthier than other customers.)
I pointed to a location across the store, and said, "Oh, that's way back near the meat stuff on the other side of produce." He shook his head, agitated.
I said, not unkindly, "Or, save yourself a few cents and slice your own cheese. The blocks are right over there." (Pointing to a refrigerator around the corner from us.)
"I have arthritis! I can't cut cheese myself! I can barely walk!"
I bit my tongue out of habit, because I'm polite by habit. I let him stomp and huff his walker away toward the sliced cheese section. Infantile cheese-cutting jokes aside, what I should have said is:
Well, if you cut your own damn cheese and USED your muscles in your hand, you might not lose use of your hands completely.
Better yet, skip the damn cheese altogether, lose 125 pounds and watch your arthritis diminish to a tolerable level, you whiny, lazy bastard.
I should have. I really should have.
I wear scrubs, and I know what I'm talking about. I'm trustworthy, even doing my grocery shopping. Right?