Am I the Larry David of Cleveland?

Last Saturday, a blunder at the grocery store resulted in a full-blown scene involving me, a butcher, two managers, and an audience of gawking staff. 

I had spoken to the butcher the previous day. He assured me he had plenty of both chicken wings and drumsticks in stock. I trusted him as he was ensnaring me in a technicality. 

He waited until I arrived at his counter the next morning to drop a bombshell: drumsticks were not the same thing as drumettes -- the miniature drumsticks that always accompany wings. And he was out of drumettes.

I fumed. He was butchering my poultry plans. Obviously, I told him, I had wanted the miniature drumettes even if my chicken terminology was off. I found myself irate over the possibility that I might not succeed in checking off all the items on my grocery list for a Super Bowl party that did not actually involve watching the Super Bowl. 

When I got home, I told the story to family members. Depending on whose side they were on, mine or the butcher's, they were either privy to or unaware of the critical term “drumette.” 

My supermarket meltdown made me take a step back and do some self-reflecting. Were my priorities out of whack? What kind of person became apoplectic over drumettes? Since retiring, had minor things come to play an outsize role in my life? 

 

In short, was I turning into the Larry David of Cleveland?

 

I thought back to some of Curb Your Enthusiasm’s greatest hits. They all involved Larry making a federal case out of something trivial, cringeworthy behavior, and everyone ostracizing him except his ever-loyal companion Jeff. Hmmm. Paging Joe.

 

I own up to the fact that I have done things in my life of which I am not 100% proud. But they would do someone like Larry David proud. To wit:

In a driving scuffle, I once double-flipped off a Meals on Wheels lady in a Columbus parking lot. 

I admit to riding the airport golf cart intended for the mobility-challenged in order to rapidly traverse the terminal.

When on vacation, I need to be the first person to get to the pool; my day is ruined if someone else gets my preferred seat. Once I have established eminent domain, I expect that location to be mine for the rest of my vacation.

My troubles with dining out are well known to readers of this blog.

I give extra-dirty looks to the guy who always double-parks at the gym, keeping me from getting my desired spot by the door.

Each of these sounds like the premise for a Curb Your Enthusiasm episode.

I see myself as exacting. I have specific tastes and thus enjoy eating those tiny drumsticks (drumettes). Full-size drumsticks on Super Bowl Sunday, even without the Super Bowl, are off the table. 

In the end, I procured the coveted drumettes. But their deliciousness came at a cost to my serenity. 

It will take effort to expunge my inner Larry -- if I ever do. I am not likely to try any time soon. Raising hell over the right kind of miniature chicken makes “pretty, pretty, pretty” good sense to me.