Manhandling the Fruit

Dear politically-correct advocates: Relax. ‘Fruit’ is meant in a literal sense.

Dear gutter-minded individuals: No, this post is not about using the ‘western grip’ or the ‘reverse stranger.’ Sorry to disappoint.

Today’s post is dedicated to that special man-girl at the large discount-box retailer that formerly used a yellow smiley face animation to market its steep discounts. This man-girl had manhandled my bananas (not in a good way) a few months ago while she was checking out my groceries. I am forever scarred. Every time I see her there, I shudder at the memory of the experience.

How did (s)he manhandle my fruit? Well, let me first start by describing her appearance. Shall I compare her to a summer’s day? I think not. I’m not too terribly superficial, though I do consider myself as deep at 3 feet (aka shallow). Her face was attractive enough and was hard to miss as she towered head and shoulders above her female companions.

Being an Asian male at a generous ‘5-8’ on my driver’s license, I can’t help but be shorter than two-thirds of white folks, but man-girl eclipsed me by at least 6 inches. That’s usually not a problem as I really dig supermodels who are all 6-ft gazelles, 6-4 in heels. But the only thing aroused was my fear of her clubbing me with a blunt instrument and carrying me off to do cruel and unusual things to me, a la caveman style (again, not in a good way).

Why all the fright? The hands. Jerry Seinfeld had a similar experience, and I imagine that it is not an uncommon experience for guys. In comparison to her thickly built fingers all calloused from chopping down trees in her second job, my hands could be used to sport the most feminine of female watches and rings. The rest of her was well-proportioned, but unfortunately it was well-proportioned to her hands.

When I got home a little later, I noticed that one of my soup cans had a dent curiously shaped as if imposed by a human hand. But my bananas were surprisingly unbruised, and the berries were fine too, despite my memory that she grabbed all the life out of them (yet again, not in a good way).

From then on, I have used the self-checkout line. The only people manhandling my bananas will be me and/or that cute female manager I saw stocking the candy.

Have you noticed that their managers have started wearing professional attire? Or is it just my pretentious neighborhood?

-g