So, a couple weeks before I applied for the Kroger job I worked for a couple summers during undergrad I went to shop at that Kroger with my mom. One of the guys stocking produce struck up a conversation while she was deciding between something, and I was polite, but certainly not flirting. He caught me when we passed back through the produce section later (my mom's a disorganized shopper) and asked for my number because, and I quote, "You have such a pretty smile that I don't even care that you're fat - what's on the outside doesn't matter!" Asshole. Of course, I didn't give him my number, and the rest of the summer (once I started working there) he'd somehow mysteriously find himself bagging my lane when it was busiest and try to invite me to do things or brag about himself and talk to the customers about, hey, wasn't it crazy that I wouldn't go out with him? In hindsight I probably should've reported it somewhere, but at the time it was kind of hysterical, because it seemed like every pitch just got worse. By the end I'd learned that he was seven years older, lived in a trailer in his parents' backyard, had seven pit bulls, and had several tattoos of playing card suits his buddy had done for him in addition to being an expert purveyor of female bodies. Not once did I feel even a little bad blatantly saying, "No," and conspiring with other baggers to oust him when he got settled at my lane.
So, a couple weeks before I applied for the Kroger job I worked for a couple summers during undergrad I went to shop at that Kroger with my mom. One of the guys stocking produce struck up a conversation while she was deciding between something, and I was polite, but certainly not flirting. He caught me when we passed back through the produce section later (my mom's a disorganized shopper) and asked for my number because, and I quote, "You have such a pretty smile that I don't even care that you're fat - what's on the outside doesn't matter!" Asshole. Of course, I didn't give him my number, and the rest of the summer (once I started working there) he'd somehow mysteriously find himself bagging my lane when it was busiest and try to invite me to do things or brag about himself and talk to the customers about, hey, wasn't it crazy that I wouldn't go out with him? In hindsight I probably should've reported it somewhere, but at the time it was kind of hysterical, because it seemed like every pitch just got worse. By the end I'd learned that he was seven years older, lived in a trailer in his parents' backyard, had seven pit bulls, and had several tattoos of playing card suits his buddy had done for him in addition to being an expert purveyor of female bodies. Not once did I feel even a little bad blatantly saying, "No," and conspiring with other baggers to oust him when he got settled at my lane.
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