When you’re from any other place in the world, all you hear about is how Disney World is the most magical and happiest place on earth. If you occasionally vacation in Florida, this seems to be the case. However, once you move here, you discover the actual “happiest place on earth” is any Publix grocery store ever created.
I’m from Connecticut and have a true New Englander attitude—don’t bother me and I won’t bother you. We enjoy social interactions, but they don’t always have to be nice, sincere, or helpful. In fact, many social interactions in New England include honking at Massachusetts drivers or screaming matches about who is better: the Yankees or the Red Sox (the Yankees, obviously). Sure, we make friends and have friendly conversations consisting of “Hi, how are you? Good, how are you?”
So even though I grew up in a small town that is similar to that of Stars Hollow from Gilmore Girls (a little bit bigger and more cows, but the general idea is that everyone knows each other and everything about their lives), I hate Publix and its friendliness with every fiber of my being.
Why is that, you may ask?
It is because I cannot walk into a Publix without being bombarded by people asking if they can help me, how my day has been, did I find what I was looking for? I am not exaggerating. These questions can be heard from the mouths of at least five employees in a short twenty-minute trip to Publix. Then they try to FOLLOW YOU TO YOUR CAR to help you with your groceries. I don’t need that, nor do I want that. I can load my own groceries, thank you very much.
I used to grocery shop at a Big Y that was literally five minutes from my house (one mile, to be exact), and everyone that worked there was from my town. In fact, the workers were all between my age and my sister’s age (she’s three and a half years older than me) so I literally went to high school with 90% of the workers at Big Y. To top it off, I knew 50% of them since I was five years old. I never spoke more than a few words to them, and them a few words to me. It’s not that they didn’t see me or anything like that—it’s just that no one wants to talk while they have other things to do.
Before Big Y was built in my town about five years ago, we had a small, independently owned grocery store called Ellington Supermarket. The manager there was my dad’s godfather. My family still wasn’t talked to as much as we are when we go to Publix.
When you went to the grocery store, you probably ran into ten people you knew that were also shopping. Most of the time, you smiled at them before you scurried along down another aisle. The only exceptions was if we saw my old favorite teachers or random relatives.
When I go to the grocery store, I don’t want to have conversations; instead, I want to buy my groceries so I can go home, eat, and get things done. Maybe it’s the relaxed lifestyle down here in Florida—people just assume you have plenty of free time to chat with them, but the Publix employees need to take a hint. If I’m dressed like this:
and I am walking at the speed of a New Yorker when the crosswalk sign says “stop” down the aisles, then please, just let me grocery shop in peace. If not, I’m just going to forget something and be forced to come back again tomorrow. Or go to Winn-Dixie, where I willingly pay almost double the price for many items, just so I can use the glorious tool known as self-checkout.
Photo credit:
http://corporate.publix.com/-/media/images/corporate/heroes/small%20-%20…
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