NOT FOR SALE

My horoscope hinted that the day would not bode well.  Throbbing pain from a recent sprained ankle concurred. Never being one to miss a sale on products not wanted or needed, the warnings went unheeded.

I borrowed a grandchild young enough to be endearing and old enough to be helpful and drove to the stove.

The discount warehouse was mobbed, prompting me to use one of the scooters provided for the disabled. How hard could it be? I thought, forgetting that technology requiring more than two buttons, preferably off and on, was most often a catastrophe.

After zigzagging throughout the aisles, narrowly sideswiping young children, and leveling tall, stacked shelves, I reconsidered my mode of travel. Scowls and snide remarks from other customers influenced my decision. Eight-year-old Nicholas trailed several feet behind me, pretending to belong to someone else.  It was time to leave.

I drove the scooter to the nearest register a little too fast, apparently, and became wedged tightly in the checkout lane. Even reverse could not budge the jammed scooter.

Amidst laughter echoing through the warehouse, a strong, disgruntled male cashier lifted and unceremoniously dumped my 5’9” body onto the conveyor belt.

As I was scanned and slid down the length of the counter, my grandson asked, “How much did you cost, Gram?  Were you on sale?