Our own little bubbles

Lynette Sowell

 

I’m about to launch into a nonsensical rant. Sometimes, there’s a time to be pithy. Meaningful. Profound. Other times, a little hissy fit or rant is called for. Hey, it makes me feel better. And, this is my front porch, soI can rant if I want to.

 

Doesn’t it bug you when you’re grocery shopping and someone stops with their cart parked in the center of the aisle, diagonally, and they don’t move? These shoppers somehow have an extreme fascination with ketchup, potato chips, or lunch meat. You fill in the blank.

 

They stand there, gaping at the shelf as if whatever they’re looking for is going to magically appear the longer they stare. No, people, this isn’t the hidden Diagon Alley in London. It’s HEB or Wal-Mart. A secret shopping aisle with hidden product is not going to appear. They’re oblivious, in a bubble, as if they’re the only ones in the store.

 

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