Regrets, I have a few

I love walking into an uncomfortable cross-cultural exchange.

My very local QFC, late. The checker is a mid-50’s Scandinavian woman, meaty and talkative.

“Oh, no, I just meant, well, you’re so tall.”

The customer is 6’4” or so, broad and blonde and wearing Carhartt overalls and a trucker hat. He nods and half-smiles and tries to look away.

“It’s just the people I know are really small. They’re from Estonia and… Where are you from in Russia.”

His smile is more strained by the moment, and he still isn’t looking at her.

“Russia Russia.”

“Oooh, Russia Russsia.”

And I so badly want to escalate. I’m sweating, and start prancing like a little girl who has to tinkle.

“Yeah, not so much to say after we kicked your asses in the Cold War, huh?”

My restraint makes me sad. But at least I didn’t get my ass kicked by a big Russian fisherman.