A few days ago I was exiting the grocery store from picking up lunch, and I was walking towards the escalator to the parking garage when a uniformed young man and his non-uniformed friend got on the escalator in front of me. From the back, it looked like the uniformed man was a policeman – he was all in black with a gun at his hip, his pants tucked into big black boots. Perhaps he was a security guard of some sort.
We rode down the escalator – yes, rode – because he and his friend were content to lean against the side and take their time getting to the bottom,
I’m okay if the elderly, mothers or fathers with small children, people with their hands full, ride down escalators. But able-bodied young men – especially one who is theoretically employed somewhere to protect me? Not only do you not let me go first down the escalator (which, since we were approaching it from opposite sides, at the same time, I kind of expected), you ride it down at you leisure?
Sorry, sir, but your big black boots and your gun are clearly compensating for something.
Anyone who knows me well knows I’m a sucker for a guy in a uniform. But a lazy guy in a uniform? No thanks. Perhaps I’m getting too used to the chivalry of Detective Murdoch, the main character in the series to which I’m now addicted, thanks to my mother. He lived in a different era, to be sure, but he would do anything for anyone — women, children, the weak and helpless. I can’t see him riding down an escalator. He had important things to accomplish.
Just some random musings.