I know many people bemoan the lack of community in today’s modern world. The “howdy neighbor”, backyard bar-b-que kind of world we had some forty years ago.
I, for one, say feh!
I have something of a “community” where I work. A lot of folks here have worked together a long time. I wouldn’t necessarily call all my coworkers friends, but heck, we’ve been through the fire together. We have more than a basic passing human concern for each other.
And so today, at lunch, I had some errands to run. Fortunately there is one of those all too popular big box discount stores less than a mile from the office.
Off I went to get what I needed, and to shop for things I didn’t need (*coff*wastetime*coff*).
I was having a nice time. Until I ran into not one, not two, but three of my coworkers. Not just people I work with at the company, people from my same organization, including the Nosy Nellie who sits directly across from me in our cubicle farm.
When you shop at a discount store like that, you want to have the freedom to buy all the embarrassing products you require without half your department knowing about it!
Yeah, I’m not talking about toilet paper or feminine products. I have more embarrassing things than that for breakfast.
I mean more like…salves and unguents.
I say “hell no!” to community when it means that your nosy coworker can peer into your shopping basket and see remedies for conditions best suffered in private.
“Hey, Bob, looks like you are struggling with the festering right buttock pustules! Boy oh boy, I remember when the wife had that. We found the generic brand worked just fine applied twice a day!”
“Oh thanks, Bill! Good to know. I was worried it might not be the same formulation. If I can cure my pustules AND save a buck, well…why not!”
: hearty laugh all around :
And the thing is, Nosy Nellie coworker isn’t just nosy for her OWN knowledge. She’ll run back to the office and tell anyone who will listen how ol’ Karen has the festering right buttock pustules.
Then there will be a line of “concerned” people at my office to give me the sympathetic eyes and their own sad stories. “Yes, I remember going to the health food store and making up a poultice of herbs and spices for *my* pustule. It smelled like Kentucky Fried Chicken, but boy did it clear things RIGHT up!”
This I don’t need.
If I could just suffer my indignities in private, that’d be great.
And for the record, I didn’t comment on the contents of THEIR shopping carts!