I move forward in the grocery line and the cashier greets me.  His broad grin touches my heart. I have not seen him before this encounter but I suddenly feel pleased that I chose his aisle.

Paper or plastic, says the sacker, reminding me that for the thousandth time, I’ve forgotten to bring re-usable bags.  Paper, I tell her, double, please.

The cashier asks me if I’ve had a good day.  I think a moment and admit that I have.  It doesn’t seem possible but his grin broadens and he replies that he has, too.  My mood improves another notch.

I watch a slim lady of 35 or 40 carry a large bag of dog food like it’s a pile of feathers.  She moves her cart behind me and I think, She’s going to love this cashier, he’s got to be one of the most cheerful young  men in this store.  I give her a smile and move beyond her, to the sacker’s station.  I’m slow; I don’t want to make anyone wait.

I see that the sacker has filled one bag to the bulging point and I mention that I won’t be able to lift it.  Do you want me to lighten it? she asks, and I laugh.  Unless you’re coming home with me, you’d better.  I push my cart further towards her and look inside the bag.  Oh, see, you’ve put all the heavy things in this one, we need to redistribute them, I tell the girl, and I try to keep my voice level.  I’ve learned that if you question the sackers at my store, they take offense. Except Kevin, whom I see sacking at the next station. I greet him and he responds, calling me by name.  He’s been there a while. He knows most of the regulars.

The sacker asks if I want her to make three bags.  I tell her no, please just move some of the heavy items into the second bag, and that’s when I hear the loud “TSK”.  Both the sacker and I turn; we simultaneously realize that the dog-food lady disapproves of what I’m doing.

Her eyebrows are drawn clear to the bridge of her nose and she has scrunched her mouth into a tight wad.  A slow burn descends from my face to my stomach.  I’m sorry, I tell her.  I’m disabled, I can’t carry heavy bags.  The sacker says, It’s all right, and touches my arm as the lady shakes her head.

I know I should let it go but I say:  Do you realize your dirty looks could hurt someone?  She pulls her phone out and makes motions as though she’s sending a text, shaking her head again, pinching her whole face together.  By this time the young lady sacking my groceries has finished redistributing them and asks if I want help outside.  I shake my head. I don’t trust myself to speak.

I wheel my cart out of the store, thinking about how the woman had behaved, realizing that for sure, I’ve acted that way in the past.  I consider the exchange.   I know it’s about her; not about me.  I did what I could to get out of her way, to speak in pleasant tones, to release what could have been impatience and deal with the situation as quickly and efficiently as possible. I strove to treat the sacker with respect.  I know these things.

But  I’m tired.  I want to crawl under a rock with all the other disabled people in the world and hug them.  I want to establish a Judgment-Free Shopping Center with plenty of clerks, accessible spaces right by the door, and Mr. Rogers for the deli manager.

I drive home still ruminating on the lady with the dog food.  I realize she could have had a bad day. Maybe her husband has cancer.  Maybe her kid flunked out of pre-school. Maybe she hates living alone.

Someone recently asked me what I’ve learned in two years of blogging about not complaining.  That’s easy, I answered.  I’ve learned that “complaining” has a much broader definition than I realized, and that some of the more insidious stuff is really hard to abandon, and hurts other people the most.

Like dirty looks levied in a grocery store line, on a Monday afternoon, in January.

It’s the twelfth day of the twenty-fifth month of My Year Without Complaining.  Life continues.