One of my weird quirks is that most of the time, I don't know how I think or feel about something until a good ten or 15 minutes after something happens that bothers me. Literally, it takes me 15 minutes to even know if I'm mad about something and by then, the thing is usually over. Which makes for some pretty hilarious marital fights sometimes.
In this case, my task was exactly 15 minutes. So I'm in my booth, cleaning up, fixing, arranging, simmering.
"Were those really Playboy magazines right inside the front door? I know people collect them. I've seen them around here before. But usually in a box. With a wrapper. Those were just sitting there at eye level. Right at the front door. Don't you have to have a permit or something for those? I think porn was on the list of things you can't sell at the other flea market. I know they are vintage, but ewww. Seriously...ewwww. Where have they been all these years and who has touched them? Ewwww. GERMS! EWWWWWWW! That's what we want at the front door? Welcome to the store! Have a dirty magazine! In fact, stand right here at the front counter for all the world to see you! Who does that?!"As I get ready to leave with a handful of stuff in my arms, I turn my back to the front door, giving myself a parting glance at the Playboy magazines, making sure I really saw what I thought I saw. In one swift, graceful moment, I push on the door with my back, I slide my foot back to clear the threshold.... I miss. I catch my foot on the textured rug, I roll my ankle all the way over so the knobby ankle bones kiss the welcome mat. I keep my feet but know that something doesn't feel right.
Burning through my usual mental haze is the realization that I have just turned an ankle because of Playboy magazines.
At home, I call the manager. "I'm not the most uptight person that will walk in your door. I know they sell. But really....at the front door? I won't say another word about it if you decide not to move them, but it just seems like that's not good for business in the long run."
A week later, my ankle still hurts.
But the magazine are gone.
And I am the most clumsy moral crusader of all time.