I'm becoming a certified "That Guy."
There are lots of "That Guys" (Those Guys?), seen variously and widely across the great quasi-urban wilds of America. The sidewalk ministers. The conspicuously sexy joggers. The imperious, sign-holding panhandler. The minions and colleagues of these characters. Etcetera. Also included in this set is the Wal-Mart RV guy -- still an emerging species, without the set-in-stone traits of his more time-tempered contemporaries, but nonetheless a That Guy, through and through.
And now, if my repeated patronizing of Wal-Mart's RV policy says anything, I can now claim membership in this last designation.
Okay, enough with the dramatization. I stayed at Wal-Mart again, this time in a quaint little mountain town in western NC. As before, there isn't much to say about this particular answer to "Where is the Yogi?" This Wal-Mart was kind and accommodating (for me, at least). I did not get robbed, abused, battered, or otherwise violated. I never felt unsafe or threatened. Even during my yoga and rebounding (have I mentioned that I also exercise for a while on a Cellercizer trampoline immediately before these public yoga sessions, as if trying to make a spectacle of myself?), I didn't get anything more than some playful rhetoric from a passing man. If there was anything remotely interesting or sensational about this particular Wal-Mart visit, it was the repeated passage of an obscenely loud car on the lot's frontage road; the furious revving of its engine was evocative of the drag-racing cars that interrupted my sleep at my maiden Wal-Mart stay, down in SC.
Wal-Mart, I'm lovin' it (come on, you know it's only a matter of time before they merge with McDonalds).
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