My partner and I have shared our lives for many years now. Throughout our time together, we’ve tackled countless questions: Do we prefer scented or unscented? White bread or wheat? Star Wars or Star Trek? However, none of these inquiries left me feeling quite as anxious as the one he recently posed while we were at the grocery store: “Should we try the self-checkout?”
We’ve been together since childhood, spent 19 years as a couple, and celebrated nearly 17 years of marriage. We’ve raised three kids, endured various deployments, and even weathered home renovations and major storms. But this? This was a whole new territory.
My previous encounters with self-checkout left me feeling uneasy. I still recall the first time I attempted to scan a bag of Red Delicious apples. The robotic voice urged me to “please move your Red…Delicious…apples to the bag,” while I nervously glanced around, fearing the machine would announce all my purchases. The thought of it shouting out every item from my cart was mortifying enough to make me question my purchase of a box of Lucky Charms. What if it commented loudly on my shopping habits? “Please move your fourth box of artificially flavored cereal to the bag.”
Thankfully, the machine only calls out produce items, but even the price announcements can be excruciating. When an expensive item is scanned, everyone nearby turns to see who the “lucky” shopper is who overpaid for toilet paper. And the dreaded “Please wait for assistance” chimes in between almost every third item, making it clear that the real cashiers are judging our decision to self-checkout.
Self-checkout is anything but relaxing. Yet my partner was eager to brave this challenge as a team. Was this some sort of twisted test of our relationship? I thought I had already proven my commitment when we successfully paddled a double kayak together.
As he started unloading our cart, I realized there’s hardly any space to do so in the self-checkout lane. Clearly, he had unwavering faith in our ability to navigate this chaos. He began sending boxes of cereal down the ramp, and I quickly learned that bagging groceries here is a skill in itself. The scales are overly sensitive, and they know if you’ve briefly placed an item on them before returning it to your cart. If you misjudge the weight of something light, like a pack of tissues, you must hurl it into the bag with enough force for the scale to acknowledge it. If you mess up, the S.O.S light flickers, summoning the judgmental cashiers who clearly wish we had just gone through their lane.
As my partner sent items at lightning speed, I felt like I was in a frantic game of catch-up. The rhythm of self-checkout demands a strict order: scan, bag, repeat. But he was moving too fast. Picture a chaotic scene reminiscent of Lucille Ball at a chocolate factory.
As my heart raced, I scrambled to keep up while my husband breezily clicked “Finish and Pay.” As we walked to the car, he casually stuffed his wallet back into his jeans and asked with a smile, “Well, how do you think that went?” In that moment, I realized that perhaps the reason things often go smoothly for him is that I’m there to catch everything that comes our way.
You’re welcome, dear.
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In summary, the challenges of self-checkout may feel daunting, but like any aspect of a long-term relationship, it’s about teamwork, humor, and learning to navigate life’s little tests together.
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