Scan The Groceries, Not My Life Choices

Somewhere between the rise of social media and the demise of boundaries, the checkout lane has become a confessional where every item is open for analysis and invites unsolicited curiosity. The cashier now feels the need to narrate and comment on the contents of my cart, as if they were hosting a live unboxing on YouTube.

“Is this good? I’ve been thinking of picking some up?”
“Oh, where did you find that. I’m an extra small. Were there any left in my size?”
“I didn’t know we sold this. Are there more?”  
“Wow, someone’s treating themselves today?”

Yes, I am treating myself to salty snacks despite being on high blood pressure meds, which I also picked up at the big box pharmacy where decorum goes to die. Thanks for mirroring that back to me. Want to FaceTime my doctor and share this with him as well? And hell no, I don’t want to discuss the pee pads or learn your aunt has incontinence. We don’t know each other.

I get less scrutiny taking my bags through airport security. What’s up with this at the grocery store? Just take that Tinker Bell scanner, let it do its dance, and leave my groceries alone. No comments, no compliments, no life coaching about nitrate intake. Make that baby beep and slide. I’ll happily pack it if it means I get to leave here with a shred of mystery intact. And don’t even think about hustling me for a donation that pads your corporation tax write-off while giving me a death stare when I confidently decline. I’m here for my milk and bread, not guilt and dread.

There was a time when boundaries were observed, when “mind your business” had a permanent address, and people didn’t casually narrate your purchases, but now, post-social media, post-privacy, post-filtered-everything, those boundaries have liquefied. Platforms have trained us to comment on everything, so maybe it’s no surprise that the grocery line has become another feed. I am not just another post to a question with a response of “OMG, same.”

I’m at an age where I’ve earned the right to choose silence over small talk. I’m not here to explain my choices, defend my love for pickled jalapeños, or give a spontaneous TED Talk on kielbasa. I don’t need the grocery clerk’s opinion on my gluten-free crackers or an unsolicited deep dive into my cereal preferences. This exchange isn’t a podcast on Rate My Groceries, it’s a Tuesday.

Sometimes, I wonder if it’s all part of a larger conspiracy to force me into self-checkout so I can avoid the modern performance art of “Let’s Analyze My Purchases.” And honestly? Tempting. I’ve even fantasized about weaponizing the interaction. Tossing something wonderfully absurd into the cart like a jumbo bottle of edible massage oil,  and a single carrot and when they inevitably raise an eyebrow, casually saying, “Oh, could you please remove that? Just got a text, we already have one at home.” I place the overly large bag of marshmallows on the black checkout conveyor belt. The cashier smiles, “Camping trip?” To which I respond, “No couch trip.”

Here’s the thing: Just because you can see through the plastic clamshell packaging doesn’t mean you’re invited to comment. Visibility is not consent. Transparency isn’t a green light for analysis.

And don’t get me started on self-checkout. That cruel promise of privacy until the machine freezes, you need assistance, and then some 19-year-old is summoned to help you scan panty liners and a bulk pack of sardines. Privacy denied yet again.

I’m not a curated lifestyle spread. I’m a tired person with almond milk, discounted hand lotion, who respects boundaries that strangers violate in branded aprons. Avoiding eye contact when your only item is bananas, or hearing “Wow, that’s a big jar of pickles, having a party, are you?” “Sure, let’s go with that.”

Here’s a radical idea: let people buy their weird, boring, or binge-worthy items without commentary. Not every moment needs a connection. It doesn’t. Some of us want to be left alone with our frozen dumplings and our will to survive.

It’s not a sacred journey. It’s groceries. Swipe. Bag. Silence. Next.