Kill The Goat

That feeling of dread.


It's that time of the year. Supposedly the most wonderful.

I've been at the mecca store which is filled to bursting with people buying things no one needs, trying to shop off a list that is sometimes too specific, sometimes too vague:

princess sticker book - check

20" plush tiger wearing apron - ?

oven-to-table corningware - check

something that will really knock his socks off but cost less than $50 - ?

A chunk of my life I can never get back floats by. I am at the densely-packed front of the store, my cart heaped with things I'll question later, trying not to maim anyone with unwieldly tubes of wrapping paper. I pick the line that seems the shortest but takes the longest. I have ample time to read all the headlines, resist all the impulses, and check out the latest in gum. I am overheating in my coat, and trying to keep my scarf out of the puddles melting off other people's boots.

I reach the cashier with time. She is wearing a vest, and weariness. Palpable weariness that smells like canned soup and cardboard. I don't mean to make her bad day worse, but the little slot in my wallet between my license and my points cards is empty. I perform an archaelogical dig down to the bottom of my purse, and then back up again, all to no avail. My card is missing. Heart in throat. People in line behind me look on with about as much sympathy as Kanye feels for the papparazzi.

Today I am that woman.

Annual holiday tradition of losing my debit card - check.