Whoopi Calls It African-American Friday, Yes!

I am doing it. I am finally doing it! I am Black Friday-ing!

Note: Cross that puppy off the bucket list, yes!

I am standing in a line. A very, very long line. I am pushing large boxes of items on the floor because there are no carts available. Precariously stacked in a Grinch-like manner on top of the large boxes are smaller boxes and trinkets and stuff. There are no carts available anywhere in Contra Costa County, probably.

It is hot in here. It is hot in here because there are a thousand other shoppers, pressing their bodies this close to mine. I am sweating, but I can not take off my sweatshirt to reveal my turtleneck underneath. I am not wearing a bra, you see.

Note: Wearing a bra while shopping in the middle of the night seemed optional, at the time.

A vendor comes through the line with 5-Hour energy shots. For free. No thank you, I say. The ladies in front of me gulp theirs down. They ask for more.

The guy behind me actually has a cart. He keeps ramming it into my ample bum, accidentally, I think. He is staying this close just in case some unruly shopper tries to cut into our line, I suppose.

The ladies in front of me getting boisterous. I think the Energy Shots are kicking in, yes.

I pass the time by fluffing up the artificial Christmas trees dotting the store. My pet peeve is unfluffed artificial trees. The trees look so much better now, the other shoppers agree. Thank you, I am saying.

Why isn't the line moving? I am so hot. The Hub goes to get another Diet Coke to add to our growing pile of empties, which lies on top of the boxes we are pushing, for which we will pay when we get to the checkout. If we ever get to the checkout.

Our line has not moved for thirty minutes. Shoppers are getting restless. I am selected to investigate. Because of my calm, collected manner and excellent negotiation skills, I suppose.

Note: I am chosen because I am the only shopper with the grim determination to take on the Line Manager.

Additional Note: The Line Manager is a roundish control-freak who is a loud talker who employs a series of walkie-talkies and clipboards and bathroom passes to leave the line for necessary breaks, at her whim. She doesn't scare me, oh no she doesn't.

Additional Additional Note: She might scare me a little.

Quick Observation: My cause would be greatly aided if the Line Manager were a balding fellow in his fifties with a belly hanging over his belt. Just saying.

The Line Manager is explaining to me that the Laptop people got to cut in front of the rest of us regular shoppers.

What! Cutter Cutter, Peanut Butter I am saying and then I am offering to buy a laptop so I can cut in line too. She sends me back to the crowd to deliver the news to my fellow shoppers.

No one is happy about the news. There is rumbling. There is pacing. There is a quiet threat of rebellion.

It's so hot in here. I lift up my sweatshirt and fan myself with it. I am careful to not flash the boobies. But if the Line Manager were a balding fellow in his fifties with a belly hanging over his belt ...

After two and a half hours in line, I am done! I am out! I am free!

I need a cart!

I skim the parking lot with my eagle-like vision. I see one, oh yes! The Lady next to me sees it, too. The Lady sees it after I see it, because I am already jogging to the cart, inhaling the cool air. My boobies are bouncing, but it is refreshing, yes.

The Lady next to me bolts for the cart. Seriously? I can take her. I speed up. My long legs are gliding like a gazelle.

She speeds up.

What am I doing? I hand her the cart. Merry Christmas, I say. After all, there must be one more cart somewhere in Contra Costa County.

Merry Christmas!

Heck, yes!