Americans and their sliced cheese.

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.

Or:

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?