We who do not Whoo

Yesterday I was in Metropolitan Market, a Whole Foods-like grocery store. You know the type of place- $18 a pound chicken salad, dairy-free cheese, varities of exotic produce you won't admit to being afraid of but secretly are.

As one does, I greeted the person behind the register with something to the effect of "How're you doing?" The cashier looked to be in her early 30s. She paused for a moment, then shrugged. "Eh" she said. "I'm here." She wasn't surly or rude. Just forthright.

I told her I loved her honesty. We commiserated that there are days one simply gets through. I told her about the aggressive Whoo! culture in er, some companies. "I'd die" she said simply.

Yeah.

Having a fellow genuine person in her midst seemed to perk her up. We talked about the value of expressing enthusiasm sincerely. Of being polite and doing one's job well, but not being phony. Mark Twain beamed at us from the heavens. Diogenes danced with joy.

As she keyed in the code for my cilatro, I asked where she'd like to be right now. She said she'd been working too hard, and would like to just be at home, watching TV. I shared my fantasy of consuming a six-serving box of smoked gruyere macaroni and cheese while watching Fresh Prince of Bel Air reruns. Her version was a giant Wolfgang Puck pizza and Titanic.

As I was leaving I did not tell her to have a nice day. Nor did she say it to me. Is it ironic that both of our days were now just a little bit nicer? I don't think so.