A southern insult

I like to think that usually I'm a nice person. Unless you are the fourth student to interrupt me during lunch, the flight attendant who bumps my head a fifth time with your cart, or any local driver, you will find that on the whole, I try to be friendly. In fact, husband-dear, on one of our first dates, told me that one of the things he really liked about me was that I was "just nice" (yes, I melted).

Now in the past, I've written about how southerners are nice too. And how sometimes, they take this whole "niceness" to a whole new level, a level that some might even consider annoying. I mean, it's one thing to be nice and perky, it's another thing to be nice and perky when it's seven in the morning and I haven't had my coffee yet.

But as of this morning, I discovered that there is yet another, possible more irksome dimension to this southern niceness: Forcing niceness upon people. Allow me to explain.

This morning I had to stop to get gas. As I drive close to a thousand miles per week, and my car only holds about 11 gallons, this is not something novel. But whenever it times out that I have to get gas before I get on the interstate, I'm always a little less than thrilled. I mean, would you be if it was six in the morning, you've just settled into your car, taken your shoes off, tuned into a really interesting story on NPR, and you now have to stop for gas? I'm not. But I take it in stride. I put my shoes back on, slide my card through the machine and stare into space for five minutes before getting my receipt and leaving.

But this morning, things didn't go quite that smoothly. First, I'm really tired. It's the first week of teaching, second week of late registration, and I had had it. My eyes feel swollen, my head hurts, and I'm just not feeling it. So when the pump takes about two minutes to pump out a single gallon, you can imagine that I am less than thrilled. After waiting for about ten minutes, when my tank is finally full, I wait for the receipt. Only there is none. The machine is out of ink. That just made me jump for joy. Because now I couldn't just get in my car and leave, no, I had to go into the store to get my receipt. And no, I don't leave without a receipt. Not after one incident where I slid my card, got gas, didn't get a receipt, almost just wrote the amount down, then decided to go into the store anyway, only to find the machine had messed up and I had actually not paid yet.

So there was my second hurdle: I now had to go into the store. And this meant actually getting dressed. For those of you wondering I drive half-naked: I do. Sort of. When wearing really high heels, I will drive bare foot or in sneakers. And during summer, I usually drive in my (very decent, thankyouverymuch) camisole, hanging whatever dress shirt I will wear inside my freezing office in the back. So, sighing and muttering things about early mornings and long drives and hot summers, I realized I would have to put my complicated strappy sandals on entirely, instead of just sort of standing on top of the shoe as a way to protect my bare feet from the grubby pavement. It also entailed putting on the dress shirt I had carefully hung on the back of my chair, which involved way too many movements for six, well 6:15 now, in the morning.

But here I am. I'm dressed. I have my wallet, my keys, and am now making my way across a parking lot towards the store. Together with twenty-five other people who all need coffee/chew/a receipt/the bathroom. And we're all quiet. On account of, you know, it's 6:15 in the morning. When I came to the door, I realized that one of the store employees decided that morning rush hour would be the opportune moment to windex the store doors. Now I like clean windows as much as the next person, but I needed to get in the store, so I ask her, "Excuse me?", and open the door. The lady then turns to me, smiles, and says in the perkiest voice imaginable, "Well, good morning to you!"

For those of you not familiar with southern discourse; she just told me, between the lines, that I really should have wished her good morning, and not ignored her and just said excuse me because that was just really rude.

"Good morning to you!" - a southern insult.

So anyway, there are three ways one can respond to this.

Option 1: Stop, wish her a good morning, and then proceed to tell her all about your morning. Because if someone is that eager to wish you a good morning, they must be super-interested in knowing all there is to know about your morning as well. I could have told her about fixing lunch, and running out of yogurts. About Shelby not wanting to get into her crate. About getting my skirt all covered in dog hairs, and running around trying to find a lint roller. This approach is called, "Playing it their way"

Option 2: Stop, and tell her it's freaking 6:15 in the morning, we're all just really tired, and can she please just let me get my receipt so I can drive to work. One could have even added in something like, "Not all of us work around the corner", or "If your gas station had working pumps, I wouldn't be here", or "why on earth would anyone be windexing anything at this hour?". This is known as the "I'm not from around here, and I don't play it your way".

Option 3: Ignore her completely.

I selected the third option.

Although now I feel bad for not wishing her a good morning too. I'm telling you, if you're not careful, these southern ways get inside your head, and before you know it, you're one of them. The bodysnatchers ain't got nothing on these people....