My Inner Karen
Yeah, I was a Karen today. Trust me, it can happen to the best of us.
I always counsel my kids to be patient with people who are acting badly. You don’t know what has happened to them, what news they may have received just moments before. You don’t know if they’re vulnerable, or altered by substances.
I just got home from the grocery store down the hill. I’m still shaking, still feeling the residue of my outburst.
On the surface of things, I am a middle-class, middle-aged white woman who just had a temper tantrum because there were ice crystals in her vanilla ice cream in the middle of the day. Yep. That was me, graying wisps of hair falling in my eyes, stamping my feet, harumph-ing, and what have you.
“Eight dollars, please. All I need is my eight dollars,” I intoned angrily.
I pray there was no one in line who knew me.
“Ice cream isn’t supposed to be crunchy!” I spat, sarcastically.
Yeah. That was me, I’m afraid.
It’s true. It’s laughably absurd and pathetic that I lost it because when I got home, it was quite evident my Strauss vanilla ice cream had melted and been re-frozen, then sold to me for eight bucks. Which is expensive.
