We have all heard the expression and maybe even read the book, “Don’t Sweat the Small Stuff,” yet sometimes we do or we have an encounter that reminds us.

It was a beautiful, but humid (which in this part of the country is usual) summer evening and we were standing on line for an ice cream cone.  The line was long: actually there were two adjacent long lines, filled with children, teenagers, families, infants in strollers, couples of all ages and pairs of friends, also of all ages. One such pair of friends was standing in line in front of us; they looked to each be around eighty years old, but this is just speculation.  As we waited and my friend and I chattered away the time, during the pauses in our conversation, I could not help but overhear some of the conversation of the women in front of us being that we were standing so close behind them.  One of the women was making remarks about people in line, and it was really obvious because she would look around, scowl and quip to her friend things like, “Look at her in those shorts—who does she think she is?” or she would pass a disapproving glance through the crowd.  Mind you, we were on line for ice cream at an ice cream shack, not a fancy restaurant!  In response to her remarks, her companion would shake her head in agreement or just listen dutifully.

Finally, after about forty-five minutes it was almost our turn to reach the front of the line and place our orders at the counter of the ice cream shack.  Being closer to the front of the line, we could now read the numerous assortment of flavors including one of the evening’s special flavors: “carmel pretzel swirl.” Moments later, it was time for the woman in front of us to order.  The college girl politely asked her, “What can I get you this evening?”  The woman answered, “A cup of carmel pretzel swirl.”  The college girl then politely answered,  “I am sorry but we are out of that flavor, can I get you something else instead?”—there are about thirty other flavors!  And with that, the woman, in the meanest, rudest tone possible, snapped back at the college girl, ” FORGET IT!!!!”, as if it was the college girl’s fault that they were out of the flavor she wanted, and really, as if she had just been given a death sentence!  The two women (including the dutiful one) stomped off of the line, neither one getting an ice cream or even considering getting another flavor.

I was not only in shock by her reaction, but very offended by it and very sympathetic towards the innocent college girl who was just politely doing her job at the busy ice cream counter!  How could that woman act so rudely, and about something that was supposed to be fun and delicious—ICE CREAM?  What was the big deal if they ran out of the flavor she wanted—she had waited almost an hour on line and there were at least thirty other flavors to choose from?  Why could she not just choose another flavor?  Why did she have to treat the college girl with such disdain? Why did she make such a big deal over this and how come she could not recover from her disappointment over something so inconsequential?  All of these questions flooded my mind.

I did not have time to think of any answers to those questions because now it was our turn to order our ice cream treats! I settled on a vanilla/banana soft- serve with hot fudge!  My companion had wanted the mocha chip but they were out of that one too so he settled on a cone filled with a flavor called “Moose Tracks!” Thankfully my companion got it right and did not have a meltdown over ice cream!

As we walked home, enjoying our frozen treats and the simple pleasure of the evening, I looked back at the long line of waiting patrons and could not help but think that they too would soon be cooling down with their icy treats and how that unhappy woman and her dutiful companion were somewhere in the night sweating over the small stuff.