I strode with a quiet confidence as I made my way from my car to the storefront. I hopped over the gravel partition that separated the formal parking area from the through-road. The density of people and the buzz of activity started to pick up the closer I got. Eventually I was forced to weave and bob around the busy shoppers who had just made their exodus through the automatic, sliding doors.
I approached these same doors with all the cocksureness of an experienced fry cook. I hit the sensor pad at full speed and, ..., and, splat. I walked face first into the immobile door. Did I mention that this door was supposed to open automatically? Can you even begin to appreciate the humiliation that I was subjected to doing a faceplant into a glass door in front of dozens of other shoppers. I do believe that I am scarred, ..., for life. I can still hear the muted giggles and guffaws. I can still see the fingers pointed straight at me. I can still smell the, ..., the windex! Do you not understand that a door that does not open is technically called a wall? So, today's post is dedicated to those automatic sliding door calibration technicians. You really grind my gears. Given the already shady reputation of folks in this line of work (they were wholly implicated in the White Water scandal as being in cahoots with Hillary Clinton), I would not be surprised if this episode actually was done on purpose, that I was made to be the butt of some sicko's perverted joke. How can I ever be expected to go shopping again?