You are walking toward me, oblivious to my presence because you are immersed in your little handheld toy. I try to evade you, but I cannot, and you crash into me…and then, with an apologetic smile and a lame “Sorry…” you continue on your way.
It happens to me almost every day…at the supermarket, in the parking lot, at the gym. Anywhere. Everywhere. I would like to stop you, hold on to your arm, refuse to let you escape. And then, in a quiet, polite way, recite a monologue that I have memorized. It goes something like this:
“I want to tell you something. One of my pet peeves is people who wander around, peering at their handheld toy, sometimes being rude, often inconsiderate, to everyone around them. They do things that even they would never do if they didn’t have the toy in their hand. But in their mind, the toy excuses them. In my mind it does not.”
Oh well. If I did that, you would shake your arm loose and flee, dismissing me as just another cantankerous old fart.
You would be correct in your description of me…but not in dismissing my monologue.