Heather Anne

When we were children my dad used to take my sister and me to Hartsfield International Airport so we could ride the tram between concourses. And also so he could brandish us with a cattle prod if we got in anyone’s way.

Okay, I am making that cattle prod thing up, but one of my dad’s most redundant (and important) lessons when were kids went thusly: a) Walk with purpose, because b) you are not the only person on the planet. c) There are billions of other people that are trying to get where they’re getting, and d) they don’t want to trip over you on their way there.

Unfortunately for all of the folks trying to utilize their Blockbuster All-Access passes on Friday afternoon at the Chestnut Mountain store, there was a man who’d never learned to walk with purpose. Unless that purpose was to press as much of himself up against his girlfriend as possible, while dawdling along in synch with her every apathetic step.

I’ve never seen anything like it. This guy was kind of stand-spooning his girlfriend from behind, holding both her hands. They stepped together with their right foot, then together with their left foot, pausing after every step to browse the DVDs. It was quite the impediment for people on both sides of the aisle, and I waited behind them for a good two minutes before I spoke up.

“Hey,” I finally said. “You guys would be awesome at the three-legged race.”

They turned to face me, noticing, perhaps for the first time, that there was a mob surrounding them. I slid to the side of the aisle, and they moved with me.

“What did you say?” the girl asked.

“Three-legged race,” I repeated. “It’s a compliment. I’ve always been crap at the three-legged race. It sort of magnifies my trust issues and fear of commitment.”

As I was speaking, I began covertly waving people past us. One woman slid by and picked up a few discs of Heroes. Another couple moved past and got a disc of The Office.

“Is she for real?” the girl asked her boyfriend, who was still clinging to her back as if he’d been stapled there.

“Oh, I assure you I am for real,” I answered. Three more people scooted by, picking up DVDs and hurrying out of the way. “I’ve always thought the three-legged race should be an Olympic sport -- maybe take the place of rhythmic gymnastics. I mean, what is that? It’s like gymnastics with a ball. Play basketball or be a real gymnast. We don’t need some sort of weird gymnastical-hybrid, am I right?”

The stapled-boyfriend nodded at me. “Right,” he said.

His girlfriend turned to look at him, and when she did the woman standing behind them mouthed, “What do you need?”

“30 Rock,” I mouthed back.

“Are you hitting on him?” the girl finally asked.

“No.” I said. “Not at all. I just think you two have what it takes to be three-legged contenders. At the very least, you’d place well at an adult field day.”

The woman behind the couple held up the first disc of 30 Rock, and I surreptitiously shook my head. The boyfriend asked me if adult field days were a real thing, as the woman behind them held up disc two. I shook my head again. “Disc three.”

“What?” the boyfriend asked.

“Beats me,” I said. “But they should be.”

Seeing that my disc was secure and on its way to the checkout, I bid the couple farewell and wished them luck in all their athletic endeavors.

At the register, the people in line led me right to the front. “Good job,” they said. “Thank you.” I smiled and nodded, the hero thing coming naturally to me, as you know. Someone handed me my 30 Rock disc and someone else said, “Do you really thing the three-legged race should be an Olympic sport?”

“Of course not.” I rolled my eyed. “But the potato sack race? Absolutely.”

I am: a) good at walking with purpose, b) totally lame at three-legged racing, but c) unbeatable at potato sack racing.

I only play games I can win.

Another thing I learned from my dad.