ROBIN WRITES: Grinching at Walmart

By Editor | December 29, 2025 |

I took a deep breath and stepped into the chaos of Walmart, determined to finally finish my Christmas shopping. Only a few carts were left; I grabbed one and braced for impact.
I was immediately swallowed by the massive swarm of people whose feet and wheels covered every floor tile of the store. To my eyes, they were all moving in slow motion.
Now, I need to say here; I like to PERUSE as much as the next guy. There is great satisfaction in strolling down aisles, eyeing baubles in dull deliberation. Playing the “I can decide if I need this by holding it for a while” game.
But not at Christmastime.
’Tis the season to GET OUT OF THE WAY. Push that cart, Grandma. It’s not a walker. Mom, wedge your kid’s legs into those wire shackles on your cart and get her off the track. The lanes are too narrow for the “mommy-mommy-mommy” action of her light-up sneakers.
I dodged retirees callously, pretending I wasn’t one myself. I careened around crying kids and rolled my rickety cart along at breakneck pace. Time to get in and get out.
When I came to the Bedding section, I rounded the corner on two wheels…
And that’s when I met her. The human roadblock. I skidded to a stop, just inches from her cart. Yes, it was perfectly parked. Dead center of the aisle and weighed down with a chimney-clogging glut of Christmas cargo.
She was hugging a set of blue flannel sheets with one arm. Her other hand was reaching up and snagging a set of green ones. They landed atop the first; she cradled them like chubby little babies.
The woman inhaled deeply and huffed out indecision.
“I don’t know…” Thoughts came blipping from her mouth like the oil in a Christmas bubble light. She held a set in each hand, weighing her selection against a scale of criteria no one else would understand.
This shouldn’t take long, I thought. It wasn’t as if she had to decide between Kevorkian care or life support. The choice didn’t hold dire consequences. Would her son stomp away from the Christmas tree with a set of sheets that clashed with his bedroom color palette? Would their relationship suffer from her selection? I thought not.
I waited in a suspended state of obvious invisibility. After a minute or two, I cleared my throat. I tapped the front of her cart, ever so gently, with mine. I said “excuse me” with robotic anonymity and a feral grimace of fake friendliness behind my mask.
But she was locked in her soundproof booth. Her eyes saw only Christmas Future. The moment was stretching into long, loopy strands of time-wasting taffy.
I thought up a plan, and I thought it up quick.
I cleared my throat with a roar to get her attention, startling her. Her body vibrated like the buzz of a frayed extension cord against rusty guttering. She gazed up, pleadingly.
“Take the blue,” I cooed, my Grinchy lips curdling each vowel in clumpy syllables of calm. “They’re per-r-r-rfect.”
Her shopping smile grew three sizes that day. The green sheets fell to the floor with a whump. She tossed the blue sheets into her sleigh of selections and rolled away.
My eyes filled with tinsel-y tears. I had the aisle all to myself, and I felt oh-so-jolly. Maybe my Christmas spirit isn’t what it should be. I’ll have to work on that.
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■ Robin is a freelance columnist who lives and writes in Quincy, Illinois. Contact her at [email protected].