It’s stupid and it shouldn’t have mattered. But it did.

In junior high, I was extremely prone to developing obsessions. From frogs to Hanson, I had my vices. One of the things I got really into was the Rosie O’Donnell show.

I don’t know why.

Rosie was (and I presume still is) warm and funny, and she let you into her life while having fun guests on a show. Somewhere I own a Lion King journal where I actually kept track of who was on her show every day. I know, I know: weird.

Of course, she had running gags and merchandise. There were the Koosh shooters that she aimed at the cameras every day. (Although I did own one, it was not the “Rosie” brand.) After Scope released its most kissable and least kissable list one Valentine’s and Rosie’s name was on the least side, she became a spokesperson for Listerine. Every time a guest greeted her with a kiss, Listerine gave $1,000 to charity. She was charity-minded and put together a book of jokes from kids for kids called Kids Are Punny, and its proceeds went to charity. Yes, I bought the book.

This is the part where I tell you that, although I was far too old, I really wanted the doll she came out with. It was plush and had recordings of her voice and her laugh when you squeezed her hand or foot. And, again, proceeds went to charity.

I don’t know why it appealed to me. But I saved my money up to buy one.

So. We went to town. (When you’re from a tiny town, that’s what you say when you go anywhere bigger than your own village.) We were going to go to Toys R Us, I think, but first we went to the mall.

I wandered into After Thoughts (a cheap jewelry store aimed at teenage girls, like Claire’s) and saw some little trinket I liked.

Wondering if I had enough money for both this jewel and the doll I’d been saving for, I needed to count my money. Somehow it seemed like a bad idea to me to just flash around the dolla-dolla bills from my pocket, so I turned in toward a shelf and discreetly pulled out my wad of money.

I counted and found that I did, in fact, have enough. So I slid the bills back into my front right pocket.

A woman passing by the store walked up to me and said, “No offense, but whatever it is, put it back.”

Shocked and confused, I finally understood what she was suggesting. I practically chased her down the mall trying to tell her I didn’t steal a thing—never had. She walked away quickly and wouldn’t turn around and acknowledge this poor kid she’d very wrongly accused of shoplifting.

My face was hot and I felt this immense guilt. This stranger thinking I had stolen something was almost as guilt-inducing as the actual theft probably would have been for me.

Slowly, my guilt turned to rage. Who did this woman think she was? She didn’t know me. She didn’t know my storay. (Read that sassy.) She came in and accused one heck of an innocent girl of something, without any context of understanding. And then couldn’t even turn around and face the kid she’d accused. Was she indignant? Proud of her courage? Afraid she’d been wrong?

It’s unfortunate that I let a stranger, who was wrong and ignorant, have so much power over me.