Working the day shift felt oddly similar to walking through the plus size section of Wal-Mart. The day shift was home to middle aged women whose voices were hoarse from years of smoking and whose waistlines had broadened as a result of sufficing on Dunkin Donuts for breakfast and Chinese takeout for lunch. Each woman was more miserable than the next. Watching them waddle around the store while sucking down jumbo fruit smoothies was more of a motivation than anything else to go to the gym and study hard in school. These women never smiled unless they were ripping apart an incompetent customer or mocking the manager. The funny thing about our manager is that he was only nice to people he found attractive; therefore he was not nice to these women and thus they hated him. He'd come over to the front desk, tell them to do something, and after he walked away they spent a good half hour impersonating his slightly crooked walk and booming voice. They'd cackle and shriek and clap their hands if something was particularly amusing. They did not look kindly on those of us who were in college or high school. If we asked for help, they'd reply in a nasty tone, usually avoiding eye contact and making us feel as though we were a bunch of mindless apes. One lady in particular looked as though she had been dragged straight from a Nascar race and plopped in front of a register. Her gray hair was dyed red with poofy bangs in the front and feathered madness in the back. She liked roller coasters, beer and fleece pullovers. She had attached about twenty of those novelty key chains to her car keys, the ones which said things like "It's Miss Bitch to You" and "I have a gun an PMS, did you want to tell me something?" When no customers were on her line she stood there with her arms crossed and a frown drawn across her face. She had a daughter, that was why she worked there, presumably so her daughter could have a better life.

The day shift also meant old people and moms with young children. There are two kinds of old people: those who are wise and friendly and those who smell like mothballs, pay with checks, hoard coupons for years, can't read, and buy the fifty pound bag of catfood but then request that the bags be packed light. Seeing the latter of the two made me fear the inevitable process of aging. God, strike me down with a lightning bolt the day I buy Cat Fancy and the glasses repair kit that's wedged between the chewing gum and mini book of horoscopes.

Old people always complained, mostly because they had read a coupon wrong and felt they had been overcharged. One feisty old lady even went so far as to accuse one cashier of stealing from her. Their purchases mostly consisted of the same things: canned string beans, Centrum silver mutlivitamins, sugarless wafers, Lactaid and pork chops. They usually came in buses driven by local nursing homes or in massive Lincoln Towncars which they never could maneuver.

Moms with young children undoubtedly surpassed any annoyance that senior citizens presented. Moms with young children were pushy, always in a rush, and blinded by the belief that their child was the most intelligent, beautiful creature to ever plop out of a womb. The moms would gab on their cell phones, oblivious to the mess their sticky children would make and even more oblivious to the fact that there was indeed a line forming behind them. If the kids were asleep, you were home free. But God forbid you get a hungry infant on your line, or even worse, a two year old who has just been told it cannot have a toy, and all of hell's most foul lairs were unleashed upon you. A crying infant is like the alarm my roommate used to have. She'd set it for a certain time at night, leave, not be home in time to shut the alarm off, lock her door, and I'd be left listening to it for the next hour until it finally turned itself off. Yes, that is the most perfect way I know to describe a wailing infant: deafeningly loud and leaves you craving a sledgehammer.