I don't know what it is about men who work behind the deli counter but another one flirted with me this past Friday at Detwiler's Farm Market. With the top of his hair bleached blond under his hairnet, he looked like a kid to me so I'm guessing I am old enough to be his mother. That's not what I want to talk about, though. What I want to talk about is anxiety.
Anxiety at the Deli Counter
One of the repercussions of the car accident that has hung around is anxiety. It makes my skin itch. It makes my heart race. It makes me sweat. I keep it under control as best I can but under certain circumstances it gets the best of me. Standing around with everyone else while waiting for my turn at the deli counter gives me anxiety. I have to gently push my way to the front to pick a number from the dispenser. I fumble around trying to rip off one ticket and end up with two. I don't know where to put the extra one; this dispenser is freestanding and it is mocking me. I lay the ticket on top of it knowing it will probably fall to the ground. Oh, well! Not my problem.
My number is eight. The number lit up on the deli counter display is four. Not too bad. I look around. It isn't that crowded. I find a place to park my cart. Not too far away but not a part of the herd. I'm also claustrophobic. The kid with the hair hands someone their order and they are done. He looks behind and then calls out, "Number five. Number five. NUMBER FIVE. Is anyone NUMBER FIVE? Number five. Number five?" The herd is looking at one another. No one is admitting to be number five. Did five give up and decide not to wait? Does it matter? No one is answering. Move on, please.
Then he calls out, "How about number eight? Is there a number eight?" What!? I'm number eight but I see people standing there waiting that are ahead of me. I look to my right and ask the woman next to me, "How did hego from five to eight?" She just smiles and shakes her head. One of the herd speaks up and offers, "I'm six..."
Great! Let's go people.
Another deli person looks at the number on the counter and asks,"Number five. Number five?" I look at the counter and see that blond hair never updated it. A man that has been silent this whole time says,"I was number five but I am being waited on already."
Oh My God
He decides to speak up now instead of a few minutes ago? I looked at him incredulously. The deli girl updates the number to five. "Six. Number six!" Six speaks up and we are ready move on to seven. The counter is updated again.
While this is going on I am getting a headache. I feel adrenaline rushing through my bloodstream. The lady that had number seven puts in her order and walks back to her cart to the left of me. I turn to her and admit I have so much anxiety right now. She smiles and says, "Imagine having number seven. He went from five to eight! I wondered if I would be waited on at all or left standing here."
Sure. It could be worse. It could always be worse.
It is finally my turn and it is the bleached blond guy. "Hello, Sweetie. What can I get you today?" My voice shakes when I tell him. I can hear it. What the hell. I have to get a grip. His overt flirting is embarrassing.
Earlier in the day I was at our company's holiday brunch. I was having a great time up until the point when it was announced that because of the growth we have experienced we were all expected to go up to the front of the room, take the microphone, and talk about ourselves. Bam! My heart jumped in my chest. Eventually it was my turn. I took the mic and spoke into it. I saw the crowd but no faces. I heard their reactions to my words as if I were in a tunnel. I was on autopilot with half of my brain sitting in the copilot's seat and the other half curled up under the bed hiding.
I used to get nervous but never like this. All that extrovert behavior that visited me after the accident packed up its shit leaving behind the one thing that didn't fit in its suitcase.
.
