1409 Xmas Blues

In my Christmas Carol, and personal ghosts of Christmas Past, there were certain things that weren’t entirely peace and joy. Like early morning vicious bluehairs.

I warn you, don’t make the mistake of going to Costco on a weekday, around opening time, hoping to avoid the holiday rush. Because you’ll be confronted with the rush of the slow. Herds of ambling bluehairs, each one latched onto their Costco cart like a combination battering ram and walker, poke-ily propelling themselves from aisle to clotted aisle.

This is their time. They’ve been up since 5:00am waiting for Costco’s doors to rumble open, camping on the sidewalk since at least 8:30 like 50-somethings waiting for Springsteen tickets.

Pity you if you are in the back of the herd. The excruciating sound of shopping carts’ squeaky wheels painfully punctuated by the equally screechy din of arthritis-inflicted joints. And God forbid you should have any hair color other than balding gray, dirty gray, or blue-tinted silver.

They’ll team up on you to cut you off in the peanut-brickle aisle. Or block your cart at the island of three-pack wallet assortments. Don’t lose your footing as you are slow stampeded around the cracker and cheese assortment corner or impeded near the mountainous mixed nuts display.

The sad thing is, you came early because you were in a hurry. But finding yourself slow-peded by the oldster shuffle has left you late for work.

The blue hairs don’t care. They don’t have to work. This is their time to enjoy the full benefits of the social security you yourself will never see.

They have all the time in the world and seem intent on proving it, and flaunting it, with every Scrooge-like super-slomo non-instant replay of shambling senior shopping.

Cratchet? Meet Crotchety.

America, ya gotta love it.