What My Internal Monologue Sounds Like in a Grocery Store Line

I’m standing in line at the grocery store, and unfortunately, my brain came with me.

Not the quiet, background-processing kind of brain that’s helpful for things like remembering to buy milk. I mean the full-blown, tabs-open-everywhere, over-analysis mode.

The kind that turns a simple wait into what my internal monologue sounds like in a grocery store line — basically a chaotic group chat where I’m both the sender and the recipient of every message.

And that’s the problem.

Lane Choice Regret, Phase 1

Before I even parked myself in this line, I did the mental math. Counted items. Eyeballed cart speed. Clocked how quickly each cashier was scanning.

I picked this lane because it looked optimal. But now I’m watching the woman in the next line cruise through with her four items and a cashier who seems to be both scanning and bagging like she’s training for a speed run.

Meanwhile, the person ahead of me just pulled out coupons. Plural.

Okay. Deep breath. No sudden moves. Switching lines now would look panicked.

Phase 2: Proximity Calculations

Am I too close to the person in front of me? Not close enough? What’s the correct distance for standing in line? I can smell her shampoo. Coconut. That feels like… too close.

I step back. Immediately worry that I’ve created a gap large enough for someone to mistake it as the end of the line. Step forward again. Then freeze.

This has become my full-time job now: managing the micro-adjustments of personal space like I’m playing emotional Tetris with strangers.

The Cart Is Too Honest

I glance down and remember I’ve got hemorrhoid cream right on top. Excellent. Perfect. That’s great for my brand. Right next to two bags of chips, one sad-looking cucumber, and a box of tampons.

I try to casually rearrange things, as if suddenly becoming interested in the spatial optimization of crackers. The guy behind me definitely saw it.

Whatever. It’s not illegal to have a body. Still, the embarrassment lingers like static cling. I admire the people who walk up with a single pregnancy test and no shame. That’s a level of internal stability I may never reach.

The Existential Divider Crisis

Did I put the divider down?

That little plastic bar that signals: I understand the rules of society, I am not trying to pay for your grapes. I can’t remember if I did it.

Now it feels too late. If I do it now, it’s a statement. Like I’m saying: “I don’t trust you to know where my groceries end.” I stare at it. Don’t touch it.

Now I’m thinking about the materials it’s made of. Shouldn’t we have found a better alternative by now? A bamboo divider? No, that’s worse. Compostable dividers?

Now I’m inventing checkout solutions in my head while internally spiraling about social etiquette.

This is what waiting in line does to me.

The Phone Dilemma

I consider taking out my phone. It would at least give me something to look at that isn’t the back of someone’s neck. But then what? Scroll aimlessly and miss when the line moves? Cause a delay and become that person?

Also, my battery’s at 27%. What if there’s an actual emergency later and I’ve burned through it reading comments under a dog video?

The phone stays in the pocket. I'm choosing alertness. I hate it here.

Conveyor Belt Strategy

I’m close now, which means it’s almost time to transfer items from the basket to the conveyor belt. I pause. How should I arrange them? Heavy stuff first? Grouped by type? Should I hold the bread separately to avoid squishage?

This isn’t about being efficient. It’s about not being judged by a cashier who probably doesn’t care, but might care, and that’s enough to make me overthink how I'm placing a cucumber next to a jar of pasta sauce.

I start stacking like I’m preparing for a photo shoot. Someone behind me sighs. Too bad. I’m in too deep now.

Payment Pre-Panic

Card or tap? Insert or swipe? Every store has a preference, and I always manage to guess wrong.

Also, what if today’s the day my card doesn’t work? What if it’s declined? I mean, it shouldn’t be. But what if? Do I remember my PIN? I know it starts with a 4… or was it a 7? My fingers suddenly feel like they’ve never typed anything before.

All this worry, and I’m not even at the front yet.

Bagging Guilt

Paper or plastic? Neither feels right. I have five reusable bags—none of which are with me. They’re in my car. They’re always in my car.

I’ll either have to buy another one or use plastic and feel like a terrible person for the rest of the day. I tell myself I’ll reuse the bag at home for something practical, but we both know I won’t.

Then there’s the actual bagging process. The unspoken expectation to be fast. Efficient. Chill. But not so fast that it seems like I’m rushing the cashier. It’s a choreography I’ve never quite learned, and now I’m sweating.

The Final Social Gauntlet

Almost my turn.

I rehearse the script: Hi. Or hey. Maybe just a smile? Should I ask how her day is going, or will that feel fake? What if she asks me something unexpected?

Then I spot someone I vaguely know in the next lane. My neighbor. I panic. Do I say hi? Pretend I don’t see them? Do a weird half-smile and hope it passes as acknowledgment?

This is too many interactions stacked at once. I do what any self-respecting overthinker would: I turn slightly and pretend to read a gum packet.

When It’s Finally Your Turn

All that build-up, and the transaction lasts maybe thirty seconds. I mumble the greeting I rehearsed thirteen times, tap my card successfully, and manage to bag my items without breaking anything. Victory.

But the mental residue lingers. I leave the store exhausted, like I just ran a half-marathon in my head.

And the worst part?

Nothing even went wrong.

Which somehow makes it worse—because now I’m carrying around all this unused anxiety with nowhere for it to go. Like I brought an emotional umbrella and the sky stayed clear.