"Earbuds" Are Just Shitty Headphones

I recently had a few days off work, most of which was spent sitting around my house, watching TV. Very productive time off, I admit. One problem with my sedentary lifestyle popped up on the second day: there’s no food in the house. So I sit in my underwear, on my sofa, in total silence and contemplate what I should eat. I toss around various ideas in my head—I could order a pizza, order some Chinese food, Jimmy John’s. I essentially go through a list of places that deliver food because I don't want to put on pants. Then it registers in my mind that I'm sitting on my couch in silence listing places that deliver food because I don't want to put on pants. When faced with my undeniable laziness, I decide I need to get out of the house.

Decision one is made. I will leave the house. Feel sunshine. I regret that I will have to put on clothes, but such are the burdens of modern society. But I’m going. Now to decide on “where.” I could go to Kuma’s Corner. It’s noon. I’ll get right in, eat a cheeseburger, have a beer, and be on my merry way. But I am fat. And I really need to fight the urge to continue being fat. It’s such a short-term reward. Mmmm cheeseburger with pancetta and grease sauce on it. So good. For the 15 minutes I’m eating it. And then it’s just me looking down at my midsection while the voice in my head berates me.

Really? Was that necessary? Look at yourself. Look at what you've done to yourself. You don't even feel good. You ate too much and you can feel the grease coming through your pores. Goddamnit.

So no. No Kuma’s. I could go to Urban Belly. Noodles. Soup. That can’t be bad for you, right? And it’s delicious. But it’s noon and I don’t really feel like spicy Asian food. I'm just not in the right mood. Sushi? No, same deal. Plus with all that white rice, sushi can be sneaky similar to a cheeseburger in the calorie department. And the short-term reward isn’t nearly as high. So why sushi? Never sushi. Always cheeseburger. This is a new mantra. From now on, if I’m consuming 1500 calories, I’m eating a cheeseburger. End of story.

But today, I’m not eating 1500 calories. Because I’m not being fat. And that means I’ll have to prepare my meal myself. Which means: grocery store.

So I put on my gray sweatpants and a Wisconsin hoodie, grab a reusable grocery bag so I can feel like I’m part of the solution, and drive four blocks to the grocery store. First stop: produce. I grab a vine-ripened tomato and the perfect avocado—firm, but yielding. I’m not even going to use mayonnaise, just the avocado. It’s nature’s mayo. I don’t know what that means, but I’m sticking to it. I make my way to the bakery en route to the deli counter and grab WHOLE WHEAT BREAD! I know! I don’t even want it. I saw the ciabatta roll looking all sexy next to it. But no, I went all in. Whole wheat bitches. Now all I need is to make the healthy decision on my meat. Some would ask, “Why not skip the meat altogether?” Because I eat babies! That’s why.

What’s the healthy decision on meat? Turkey. No contest. So I grab a number and begin eyeballing my turkey choices. There’s smoked, there’s honey roasted, black pepper. Oooo, black pepper. I like me some black pepper. Decision made. I’ll just have to wait my turn. I take in my surroundings.

There is one lady working the deli counter, and besides the person she’s currently serving there’s only one other customer: some twenty-something woman with short hair and a sporty windbreaker on. Wearing headphones. And this is where my story takes a twist. Because as soon as I see those headphones, my day is ruined. RUINED, I say.

Is it really necessary to listen to music while you’re buying groceries? Is the world so boring and you so unique that the only way you can muster the energy to conduct your chores is by picking out a soundtrack to conduct those chores by? I hate you. I hate you. I hate you.

The woman at the deli counter says, “Sixty-seven.” She’s half-dejected. Her words say the number, but her voice says, “Which one of you assholes is next? I’ve got five more hours of this.” I look at my ticket. “68.” It must be headphones over there.

“Sixty-seven,” comes from Deli Counter Woman again. D.C. for short.

“It must be her, I’m sixty-eight,” I reply.

D.C. looks to Headphones Lady, “Ma’am, are you sixty-seven?” No response from Headphones Lady, H.L. for short.

No response! Unbelievable. This lady isn’t paying attention. She’s got her goddamn headphones on, probably listening to some stupid shit I don’t even know what it is, standing in line at the deli counter, not even paying attention. What the shit.

“Ma’am?” This is me now. I’m playing the role of nice guy. “I think you’re up.” If you didn’t have your headphones on you’d probably know that, but nooooooo. Taylor Swifty or some chick who spells her name with a dollar sign is more important than being a participant in the world!

“Excuse me!” I get louder, and so does the voice in my head. Get your salami! ARRGGHH!!! [Rage noise.]

D.C. turns to me. “Whatever,” she says with a roll of her eyes. “It’s your turn now. She had her chance. She’s got them headphones on.” Yeah, and she probably calls them “earbuds” because that’s a thing now too.

I’m stoked that D.C. has come through with this affirmation. I am not alone in this world! It’s not just me! I step forward and hand my ticket to D.C.—

“Excuse me!” H.B. cuts in. With two words Headphones Lady becomes Headphones Bitch. And it’s not just the voice in my head who hates her. Public Lou hates her now too. “I was here before you. I’m number sixty-seven. Wait your turn," she tells me.

Wait your turn?! She admonished me? I tried! I fucking tried! I was super nice, but you weren’t here! You were hanging out with Kei$ha in your own little world! Oh you should die! You should just die! You terrible terrible person.

“But I—” Oh, Public Lou, you’re such a pussy. “Go ahead.”

I can’t tell if D.C.’s eyes are saying “I’m sorry” or if they’re agreeing with my inner monologue, “Such a pussy.” But after their secret communiqué, they roll. Then they turn to H.B. “Can I help you?”

“Yeah, I need a pound of this chickpea salad. I just love the cumin.” You love the cumin? Oh you suck so bad.

Ruined. My. Day.