There I was, navigating a Walmart in Alabama, making a conscious effort to tone down my typical fast-paced Jersey girl tendencies. With every checkout line overflowing, I decided to take the plunge into the self-checkout area. My practical partner, Jake, thrives in this environment: the efficiency! The independence! The minimal human interaction! Meanwhile, I find myself longing for the familiarity and warmth of an actual cashier. I like cashiers—they’re people, like family.
Self-checkout and I have a complicated relationship. I attempt to navigate the process with care, yet I always seem to trigger the ominous red light. Suddenly, I’m flustered, feeling like I’m being reprimanded.
Feeling reprimanded is my personal nightmare. My history boasts a stellar record: A-student, team leader, president of various clubs, honors graduate, and a relentless perfectionist. You’d think I’d conquer self-checkout with ease. But no. The more I focus, the worse it gets.
There was that one time I scanned a bottle of wine and sent the machine into a frenzy. Frozen in place, I panicked. Had I done something wrong? Am I under 21? No…Jake is 26, so that must mean I’m 28. That was the moment I discovered that purchasing alcohol in our county on Sundays is a no-go.
This time, though, self-checkout is—dare I say—going relatively smoothly. But then disaster strikes: “There is an unauthorized item in the bagging area.”
“What?!” I exclaim. “There’s nothing unauthorized here! No wine! It’s not even Sunday!” My hands are on my hips; I’m practically arguing with the machine. Then I spot it: a tube of Dora the Explorer toothpaste—not mine—crammed into the corner.
Frustrated, I kick the tube to the floor. I attempt to continue scanning, but the machine interprets this as a hostile act: “Please wait for assistance.”
“I do not want to wait!” I shout, my hands flying in the air—I’ve got Italian blood, after all! “I didn’t do anything wrong!” The feeling of injustice churns in my stomach. This machine is absurd, demanding that I comply with its madness, yet I refuse to play along any longer.
But I’m not really arguing with the machine; I’m battling all the conflicting messages I’ve absorbed throughout my life. You’ve heard them too: Be perfect, but be authentic. Don’t stand out, yet shine. Speak your truth, but only if it’s well-received.
I manage to coax the machine into processing the rest of my items, but then there’s the coupon issue. “Drop coupon in slot,” it instructs. I comply, only to notice a sign stating that coupons must be approved by a cashier.
The red light blares again. Despite my efforts, I’m still in trouble! I feel tears welling up, but then something astonishing happens: I smile. I laugh. Suddenly, I realize I’m liberated from the burden of overexerting myself.
I come to a realization: I can’t win—neither with this self-checkout nor in my quest for approval. So what do you do when you recognize you’re playing a game you can’t win? You surrender.
This absurd machine has gifted me with clarity. I understand the futility of striving for self-acceptance. I can’t earn it! What a relief it is to fail, as it means I can finally stop the relentless chase and discover what has always been within me.
A clerk approaches: “Did you drop a coupon in the slot?” she asks, her tone accusatory.
“Yes. Yes, I did,” I reply calmly. She’s simply fulfilling her duties; I don’t have to internalize her tone. I can let go of the pressure and embrace my freedom. Once we sort out the matter, I leave the store with my groceries in hand.
The sky above has never seemed so expansive.
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Summary
In a humorous and relatable narrative, Lucy shares her tumultuous experience with self-checkout at Walmart, revealing how the process became a metaphor for her struggle with self-acceptance. Ultimately, she learns that surrendering the need for perfection can lead to newfound freedom and clarity.
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