The holiday season is exciting, but it is also rife with annoyances and short tempers. So much to do and so little time to do it. Not to mention being forced into close proximity with other people: crowds in stores, crowds on the roads, crowds in lines. This season requires a person’s utmost patience and good will to survive.

I thought I’d lessen some of the craziness by ordering some of my stuff on-line. I placed an order for Christmas cards with a big box chain through the internet and received an email telling me my cards were ready for pick up. I filed the email away with a cursory glance and decided I would get the pictures when I made my weekly shopping run at the same store.

Of course I forgot. So while my son unloaded the groceries into the car, I went to pick up the photos. Even here there was a line, so I waited patiently while the young man behind the counter helped a woman who was trying to put a picture into a locket.

She had a million questions and really wanted him to copy the picture for her, but this was a self-service photo center, so he refused to do more than give her cursory instruction from behind his counter. He wouldn’t even walk over and show her which of the many machines to use.

Immediately, I knew that I would likely get little help from this quarter, so I began looking around to see if anyone else was working the photo center. No such luck.

When she moved off in frustration, I sidled up to the counter and told him my simple request: I have greeting cards to pick up. He rolled his eyes at me and said, “When did you place the order?”

I was expecting to give my name, so I just blinked at him. I couldn’t remember when I placed it. “After Thanksgiving?” I stammered, then added, “I think.”

Another eye roll accompanied a very weary sigh. This young man couldn’t have been more than 21, but he had a world-weary attitude. I guess working at a big box store wasn’t all he had imagined when he filled out the application.

He went to the file cabinet and opened it. My eyes widened at the disarray revealed in the drawer. “What’s your name?” he asked me, rolling his head back on his neck and looking up at the ceiling.

I gave him my last name. He went to the “H”s, which I counted a good sign, and leafed quickly through them. Then to my amazement, he moved over to the “A”s and started searching. Behind me grew a line of customers. I looked over my shoulder and smiled, mouthing sorry. Most of them cocked their heads to the side and pursed their lips. I was only making their life harder.

I got to worrying that he didn’t know how to spell “Hamilton”. I repeated my name, slowly. He swiveled his head around at me and just stared. His fingers continued to leaf through the packets. He was now up to “F”.

I looked down and shifted weight. The line grew longer behind me.

He finished the alphabet, then opened the next drawer down. It was also bursting with packets. Again he started with “A” and went to the end. Shutting the door, he turned to me and said, “Ain’t no Hamilton.”

“What does that mean?” I asked.

He gave me a frown that said I was daft. “Ain’t no Hamilton.”

Yeah, I got that the first time.

“But I received an email saying they were in?”

He moved to the counter and leaned on it. “I don’t know what to tell you, ma’am.”

Ma’am? Sigh. Like many women my age, I don’t know when I became a ma’am, but I hate it. I know it’s a title of respect, but when said by someone younger than me, it sounds so condescending.

“I paid for those. What do I do now?”

“I don’t know what to tell you, ma’am.”

“Are you sure you looked for Hamilton? H…a…m…”

His eyes went beyond me to the growing line. “I don’t know what to tell you, ma’am.”

“But I received an email?”

“I don’t know what to tell you, ma’am.”

“Can I have a refund?”

He shrugged. Shrugged. I could feel my face heat with fury, but I was well aware I was drawing a crowd and my son was waiting for me. In my mind, I envisioned myself reaching across the counter and grabbing him by the shirt collar, yanking his head lower than mine. “Listen, punk,” I’d say, “if you tell me you don’t know what to tell me again, I’m gonna go buck-wild on your ass.”

Instead, I backed up. “Okay,” I said, drawing a deep breath to still the rage. “Okay.” Then I turned on my heel and stormed out of the store. I was fuming, but I’m pretty sure no one noticed.

When I got home, I immediately went to my email to find the one about the cards. I was still furious. I promised myself I would never shop in that store again. I told myself I should have demanded to see a manager. I vowed I would put a review on-line….

Until I saw that I had sent the cards to the wrong store.

You know how you feel when the blood is pumping hot and furious through your body. Your face is flushed and your adrenaline is surging. Well, imagine it all leaving you in a rush. I slumped on the couch and stared at the address on the email. I sent the cards to the wrong store.

All those people waiting behind me. The young sales clerk searching through two whole drawers, looking for my pictures. I envisioned the crazy woman who pepper-sprayed someone at a Black Friday sale over an X-box and here I was, no less crazy.

Suddenly, I could imagine what that young man thought. I could see myself through his eyes. Customer after customer demanding things he just couldn’t deliver. I am what retailers hate about the holidays. I am the idiot throwing a fit over a bunch of pictures.

I owe all of those people an apology, especially the young clerk. Well, him I owe lunch or college tuition or something. And really, when I think about it, I deserved to be called ma’am. Truthfully, I deserved to be called a lot worse.