Another Covidiot

Later, on this same primary day, I went to pick up my farm goods delivery. These are raw dairy products (and more) that are prepaid for and delivered to a member’s home, wherein a refrigerator or cooler is available in a publicly accessible spot, e.g., an open garage. When I approached the private house drop I noticed a woman rummaging around some boxes piled up in the driveway. She was picking out her order. I smiled and said hello. She turned and was wearing a mask. She immediately scolded me, saying that I was supposed to wait for her to finish before getting my order.

I could see that there was plenty of room to walk around her while honoring her “space.” We were outside anyway and I was going mostly to the refrigerator that was well beyond the area she was in. Normally I am inclined to be a gentleman and heed a request by a lady. But this was more like a chaffing demand by a virtue-signaling, mask-wearing (and why?) scold (NOT a lady by any means. She reminded me of Elizabeth Warren.) I said, “Sorry,” and proceeded to the refrigerator.

She was mortally offended and asked for my name. I told her, “I know your name—you’re a ‘Karen’ ” (the current pejorative for a woman such as her).

At this she called me a “f***ing asshole.” I was a bit rattled as I picked out my order. I thought I had everything and as I passed her by (she was now at the end of the driveway putting her things in her new SUV) I said, without looking at her, “You should do something about that potty mouth of yours.” Then I got into my car and before driving a half-block I noticed I had forgotten my ice cream. So I turned around. To my surprise she was still there, fussing around with her big order, but getting ready to get in the car to leave.

I parked again, walked briskly to the freezer and picked out my ice cream. By the time I got to the bottom of the driveway, “Karen” had backed out and was ready to go forward. She hesitated when I got to the curb as she knew I needed to cross the street to get to my car. I gave her a little toodle-oo wave. This must have incensed her all the more and she peeled out, laying down a patch of rubber as she zoomed away.

This was not the end of things, however. I had to account for myself because “Karen,” the contact tracer, reported me to the farm co-op authority-in-charge! I received a message from the woman in charge to get back to her about an incident at this pick-up location. By process of elimination it became evident to her who the big offender probably was. So the following day, after a night’s sleep, I called in and “confessed.” I found this authority-in-charge to be quite willing to listen to my side of the imbroglio. It all went well and things are calmed down now. I would have acted differently had I not had such a harrowing day (or harrowing week, for that matter). But being accosted by a strident and hectoring virtue-signaler was just a bit beyond my breaking point on this day.

There is a lesson here, I must admit—we must strive during this awful time especially—to be patient of others, perhaps even to the point of passively joining in their pantomime (in order to be tolerant of their usually misguided microbiological notions). It turned out that this “Karen” was a cancer survivor, yadda-yadda-yadda… There are always two sides to every story—even for a “Karen.”