The new year is always marketed as a fresh start. A clean slate for personal growth. A jumping-off point for stomachs and livers to get their lives together after the holidays. And while my ever-expanding waistline would absolutely benefit from this noble tradition, I have decided to focus on a problem that plagues me far more consistently.
It follows me everywhere.
I’m not sure when it started. Looking back, I suspect it has always been there, lurking quietly, waiting for moments of public vulnerability. It is my shadow. My curse. The reason I stand in fluorescent-lit aisles watching my life tick away in small, humiliating increments.
I am, without question, the absolute worst person alive at choosing the correct checkout line in a store. Not occasionally. Not statistically. Every. Single. Time. And I can no longer pretend this is a coincidence.
I notice it most at grocery stores. The self-checkout line stretches from here to Egypt, so I opt for one of the three open registers instead. I choose the one that appears shortest and fastest. I am inevitably wrong. There can be only one person ahead of me, yet I am always the very last shopper to cross the checkout finish line.
The other day, I foolishly believed I had chosen wisely with Register 10.
Two women. One small cart. Hardly any items. I slid in behind them, confident I would be checking this chore off my lengthy to-do list in record time. The items in their little carriage suggested efficiency. However, it was a basket full of lies and kale.
One woman paid while the other stationed herself at the end of the counter to bag everything. Every item that passed over the scanner required discussion.
“How much was that?” the bagging woman asked.
“WHAT?” replied the other, already elbow-deep in what can only be described as a Mary Poppins–level purse, searching for her checkbook.
It quickly became clear that hearing was an issue, because the bagging woman responded by escalating the conversation to a volume normally reserved for airport runways.
“HOW MUCH WAS THAT? WAS IT TWO DOLLARS? DID YOU GIVE HER THE COUPON?”
“I CAN’T FIND MY LICENSE,” the woman paying announced at a low shriek. “I THINK IT FELL OUT. I DON’T KNOW WHERE MY LICENSE IS. YOU MIGHT HAVE TO USE YOURS.”
“MY LICENSE? FOR ASPARAGUS? At this point, half the store has completed their shopping and moved on with their lives. Somewhere, seasons have changed. Children have graduated college. Meanwhile, the clerk continues to rescan the asparagus, which insists on ringing up at $2.50, as everyone stares at it like it personally betrayed us.
“Oh! I FOUND MY LICENSE! IT WAS IN THE FRONT OF MY WALLET. ISN’T THAT FUNNY? DID WE GET A DISCOUNT ON THE ASPARAGUS?” Spoiler alert: no one thought it was funny, and I was ready to pay for the abhorrent stalks at this point.
I briefly consider abandoning my cart and eating out for the next week. I should move to another register, but that maneuver never works out for me either. Whenever I attempt it, the universe responds immediately. The cashier turns off their light. The person now checking out pays entirely in pennies and one Susan B. Anthony coin they insist on discussing at length with Ted the Clerk, who just wants to go home and rethink his life choices.
I have committed to this line.
So I stay where I am, grow a little older, and read War and Peace from cover to cover before the asparagus situation is finally resolved.
When I choose self-checkout, it is never mayhem-free. The help light blinks an endless SOS to the lone employee assigned to monitor the machines. They must have me flagged in the system as “Watch This Shady Woman. Places items in the bagging area before paying. Question everything. Do not trust her with produce sans barcode."
This is baffling as I scan with intention. With respect. With what I believe is a calm, law-abiding energy. Yet every item I scan is met with suspicion and a message of judgment.
“Please remove item from the bagging area.”
I did NOT attempt to commit a petty crime today. I placed it gently after scanning it. Lovingly. Like a person who does not want trouble.
Still, the machine disagrees. The light flashes. The employee sighs. I am cleared to continue, one item at a time, under surveillance, like a raccoon that once went through the trash and is now permanently on notice. My groceries melt into a sad puddle before I can escape this self-checkout purgatory. I finally make it to my car, a trail of Breyer’s Mint Chocolate Chip behind me like breadcrumbs leading straight to my personal failure.
At this point, I am out of strategies. I have tried following my instincts. I have tried doing the opposite of my instincts. Both approaches produce identical results.
So this year, instead of vowing to eat cleaner or drink less or finally become someone who enjoys kombucha, I am adjusting my goals.
I will still grocery shop. I will still choose the wrong line. And I will still stand there under fluorescent lights, watching the frozen food quietly lose its will to live. But I am going to try harder to make better life, er, line choices.
Personal growth is about knowing your limits.
Mine are clearly located at the checkout.
Tagline:
Tracy Winslow is probably in line at Kroger waiting to pay for her sushi and hoping she gets to eat it before it expires. When she isn’t reading the latest People Magazine from cover to cover or seeing how many pieces of gum she can shove in her mouth before it’s time to pay, she owns the premier yarn store in the Low Country - Shrimp and Knits. Learn a new hobby this year with us! You can work on it while you wait for the person in front of you to try and cash a check with an expired license. www.shrimpandknits.com