The Tippy Barstool Syndrome

​That’s what my older sister, my dear departed Stephanie, labeled the weird phenomenon of always—as the old knight in the Indiana Jones movie said—choosing poorly.
 
You walk into a bar with a few friends.  There are enough vacant stools, all looking perfectly fine.  You choose one.  While the others in your party take their seats, you hang your purse on the hook under the counter, then boost yourself up on your stool.  And it’s the one with a leg shorter than the other three.  It’s the tippy barstool.  Every bar has one, and you’ve picked it.  Again.
 
My family excels at this.  Welcome to our world.  A world where your brand new package of three pairs of socks has a sock missing.  You have five socks, not six.  The package hadn’t been opened—it was simply a freak from the factory.  Or your seat on the plane is in front of the only kicking toddler on board.  You get the idea.
 
Nowhere does Tippy Barstool Syndrome kick in as hard or as often than at the grocery store.  First you select a cart.  So many to choose from, yet you take the one with the sticky wheel.  The next has loud, squeaky wheels.  A third has gum stuck to the underside of the handle.  Around you, other shoppers are putting no thought at all into cart selection.  They simply grab one, and off they go happily—on silent and gliding wheels.
 
As you peruse the store, placing items in the cart, Tippy hovers like Eeyore’s dark cloud.  The first bag of flour you lift has a rip on the bottom that you don’t notice until it leaves a trail of white powder and the floor feels slippery.  You glance down to notice your new shoes are dusted white.  The first jar of jam you select has its little safety bubble already popped.  The yogurt container’s sealed top has a slit in it.  The bag of M&Ms was opened via the bottom seam by somebody sneaking some out, and they spill everywhere when you pick it up.
 
You’ve completed your list.  Now you scout out the shortest or fastest line.  You zip past all open lanes.  For each line of customers, your brain is calculating, rapid-fire, what types of people are in that lane and how much they’ve got in their carts.  A line may have fewer people with fewer items, but experienced shoppers know if more than one of those waiting are elderly, skip that queue.  You don’t want to be smiling politely while grandpa can’t figure out the debit card or granny endlessly searches for her checkbook, then takes five excruciating minutes to write the check.  Are there any harried moms with screaming toddlers?  Does the cashier look new?  Does the bagger pack slower than sludge?  So many factors, and your brain calculates them brilliantly.
 
The analysis from your logical quadrant reports in, and you get in a line.  Two people soon stand behind you.  And this is when TBS kicks in.  The customer at the register realizes she bought a wrong thing.  She panics, says “I’ll be right back,” dashes out of line, and disappears down an aisle.  The rest of you make small talk about the drivel on the gossip magazines’ covers in the checkout rack. Which, I have to say, are so unfair.  Either the celebrities are too skinny or they’re too fat.  Whatever the starlet weighs, it’s never good enough for the tabloids.  Alien babies and people selling their grilled cheese sandwiches that look like Jesus, however, are never criticized on those covers.
 
I’m digressing.  After a few minutes of us showing incredible patience and restraint in resisting eye rolls and sighs, the lady scoots back, apologizing.  Those who can’t fake a nice reply merely nod.  She pays and vamooses.  The next person does everything right, but the register runs out of receipt paper.
 
It continues like that as the lanes on either side flow effortlessly along.  I often tell people I meet in line to memorize my face.  If they ever see me in line again, they’d be smart to get in a different one.

A Note: My beautiful sister Stephanie passed away from a particularly ugly and aggressive throat cancer, 4 years ago this week. She was so flipping fun and funny.

​I begged her for years to quit smoking. She always said, "I'm going to. I promise." She never did. Please, if you smoke, quit now. Find a way. If you could see the pain it caused all of us, but especially our mother, you'd do it. Maybe you'll beat the odds, but why take that chance? We want you here - with us.

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