There is a specific, cruel type of retail karma reserved for the person who runs into the store for “just one thing.” You know the feeling. You’re in the middle of cooking dinner and realize you’re out of eggs. You don’t even grab a cart; you just walk in, snatch the carton, and head for the registers with a confident, brisk pace. You’ll be in and out in three minutes, tops.
That is when the universe laughs.
You find yourself behind a shopper who appears to be provisioning a small nation for a nuclear winter. Their cart is a mountain of canned goods, produce that requires individual weighing, and fifteen different types of frozen pizza. But the quantity isn’t the problem. The problem is the process.
This person has a folder of coupons, half of which expired during the Great Recession. They have a sudden, deep philosophical question about the unit price of bulk almonds. They decide, at the very last second, that they don’t actually want the three-gallon jar of pickles, necessitating a “void” that requires a manager’s key.
You stand there, a single carton of eggs in your hand, slowly realizing that you have become a permanent fixture of Aisle 4. You start to recognize the people in the next line over. You see them finish their transaction, walk to their cars, and drive away into a sunset you will never see. The “Quick Trip” is a myth. The moment you decide you’re in a hurry, the retail gods ensure you are placed behind the person whose life mission is to make the checkout process last as long as a Marvel movie.
