I got a stick of beef jerky, too, but there’s not a chance that it’ll make it to the winter. In fact, it didn’t even make it onto the belt: The lady had to scan the empty wrapper that I held up for her after snarfing my jerky while waiting in line.
My husband always tells me that it’s trashy when I do that. I tell him at least I don’t toss the wrapper to the floor when I’m finished, effectively stealing my beef jerky.
No, I don’t do that. All romanticized fantasies I’d ever had about shoplifting went straight out the window a couple of years ago, when I was pumping gas and watched a stringy-haired man walk into the convenience store and walk right back out, a gallon of milk peeking out from under his oversized black t-shirt.
I remember thinking—how in the HELL does one blithely tuck a gallon of milk under his shirt? Isn’t it cold? And that t-shirt was so big that I wondered if he had anything else hidden up there. I almost stopped him to ask if we could sit and have a picnic lunch together. I’d totally become an accessory to the crime if he’d split a bag of Cheetos.
What was I talking about again?