You'd Think Someone Named "Iron Eyes" Wouldn't Be So Weepy

One of the many things my lovely wife does for me is act as my social conscience. This means that when the grocery stores we frequent began selling reusable bags, she was the one that suggested we pick some of them up. Myself, I was contented collecting plastic bags, although in my defense I had intended to reuse them eventually. Having not yet found the time to put together a hang glider composed entirely of old Meijer bags however, I relented and now own enough of the reusable bags for most of my shopping needs.

There is, however, a cost to being responsible in this manner. See, when the cashier is bagging my groceries now, he or she seems to be incredibly self-conscious about how much they can fit in one of the reusable bags. This means that I stand there a lot longer while they call upon all their hours of Tetris playing to arrange and re-arrange the items in the bag. Yesterday, my cashier was actually taking things out of the bag, slowly looking over what she hadn't rung up yet, and then selecting items based on what would fit best. When she finally ran out of room in the bags, she actually looked ashamed when she asked if I wanted paper or plastic for the four items she couldn't fit.

Of course it probably exacerbated the situation when the question prompted me to sadly look across the store at the crying Native American.