I don't know who you are, but I think I am programmed to destroy you.

      I have noticed an interesting phenomenon that occurs in certain social situations.  It starts with some sort of casual encounter with a total stranger, and it ends in unexplained mutual hostility and ill will.  Unexplained, that is, until right now.  I shall now explain it. 

     The most frequent occurance of this for me is during lunch.  I usually go to Panera Bread, which is sometimes boring, but I never feel like putting the effort into packing my lunch or thinking of an alternative place to stop for a sandwich.  Like most popular lunch spots, Panera often has a really long line.  I don't mind standing in line. 

     The problem is that I'm ordering like, a cup of soup or a sandwich or, if I'm feeling particularly kicky, a bagel.  These items take about 2 minutes to make.  It's usually a pretty safe bet that the 40 yuppies in front of me are all ordering multiple items for multiple people, all with special requests, extras, substitutions, and beverages requiring milk to be steamed and ice to be crushed.  The yuppies, however, are not my random enemies in this situation.  It all happens on the way through the front door.



This is my battleground.

      I walk accross the parking lot with great purpose.  Invariably someone else comes from the side toward the same destination, and a silent face-off ensues.  If the other person gets to the door first, he will have to hold it open.  This means that I will go in first and be in front of him in this line of flip-flop wearing complex orderers.  Usually when the person in question is a man, he will let me go in first.  We are not enemies.  My enemy is the female who is entering at the same time as I am.

     I slow down my gait and pretend to check my phone or scratch my leg.  She pauses to hit the lock button on her key a few more times.  I stop to examine a bug on the sidewalk.  She takes a moment to adjust her purse strap.  The key here is balance.  If I fall too far behind, it will be acceptable for her to walk through the door and allow it to close behind her.  I need to maintain a close enough distance so that she feels compelled to hold the door, but not overtake her to where I would be obliged to hold it and give up my place in line.  We are trapped in a delicate dance of random enmity.

     At least she is better than walking in at the same time as a group of the aforementioned yuppies with their jogging strollers and elderly parents.  They just descend upon the front door like a swarm of locusts.  I think they are unable to see people who are not part of their immediate group, and thus I have NO chance of getting in front of them in line.  I've contemplated bringing a flowered Skort and Vera Bradley bag to try to blend in and get them to buy me lunch, but it really seems like a lot of effort for a turkey sandwich.