Meshuganah Alert

It has taken me years to get used to the people who walk around, talking loudly into tiny phone mics. Years to figure out they're not talking to themselves, there's someone on the other end, listening -- along with everyone else at the market, post office, name your location.  This particular advance in technology creeps the SJG out.  Do I want to hear you kvetching about your various medical conditions and parole violations while I'm out doing errands?  Let me think about that.  No.
But it no longer alarms me.  By now, I'm so accustomed to this breach in etiquette that I've lost my ability to separate the cellphone yakkers from the actual meshuganahs.  Yesterday I was pushing my cart past the frozen section when I saw a purple-haired gal in a floral print staring into the glass, engaging in lively conversation.  "I know, I know," she said.  "I can't decide."  I figured she was debating ice cream choices with a loved one.  I went on my way, selecting my veggies and whatnot, and circled back to the frozen section.  I like to make it my last stop.  It's a high-point for the SJG.  Fat-free, low-fat, slow-churned?  I need time to think.  I'm not the only one, apparently.  For there was the purple-haired gal, still staring into the glass, a wild expression on her face.  "I know, I know, I can't decide," she said.  "What should I do?  What should I do?"  I leaned around to open the glass door, and casually checked for the tiny phone mic. She didn't have one.  She was communing with the ice cream, asking it for guidance. I had invaded her space, and off she went, presumably to talk to other inanimate objects.  "What should I do?" she asked, as she headed down the aisle.  "What should I do?"  I think she should get a tiny phone mic, don't you?