Do You Work Here?

I was shopping at Trader Joe’s this morning when a woman walked up and asked,

“Do you work here?”

So like any normal person, I spiraled into an identity crisis.

What made her think that?

Was it the Arc’teryx beanie slumped over my bed head?
My brown Carhartt pants, despite never working a day of manual labor in my life?
My barefoot Birkenstocks, in mid-December?

I did smile at her.
Must I be paid hourly to be friendly with strangers?

Or maybe it was my cart.
10 bags of frozen blueberries.

She thought I was restocking them.
Not addicted to nutrient-dense berries.

Was it my unshaven face?
Dark circles under my eyes?
Working shifts to support my dream of becoming an award-winning novelist?

Perhaps I seemed confident?
Knowledgeable?
Someone who knew exactly where to find the frozen panko-crusted chicken breasts,
or when the Everything But the Bagel seasoning would be back in stock?

Or maybe I was just the last person left in New York not wearing AirPods.

So, I decided to clear things up.

“Yes, I do. How can I help you today, ma’am?”