My Internal Monologue While Waiting in Line

I'm standing in line at the grocery store, and there's a slight problem. The problem is that I'm thinking. Not the casual, floaty kind of thinking where you wonder what's for dinner or remember you need to call your mom. No, I mean the full-blown internal circus that happens when my brain gets five unoccupied minutes.

Welcome to the overthinking Olympics, line-waiting edition.

The First 30 Seconds: Positioning Anxiety

Is this actually the shortest line? I counted the items in everyone's carts before choosing this lane, but what if I miscounted? The woman in the next lane only has four things, but one is a produce item that might need to be weighed. Or price-checked? Is that still a thing? My lane has a person with a full cart, but the cashier seems efficient. I've made a terrible mistake, haven't I?

I shift my weight from one foot to the other, clutching my basket with white knuckles. The universal signal of line-waiting distress.

Every line-waiter falls into distinct categories. There's the Phone Scroller, blissfully unaware of the passage of time. The Impatient Huffer, whose dramatic sighs could power a small wind farm. And then there's me—The Overthinker—analyzing the line dynamics like it's my doctoral thesis.

Minute Two: The Personal Space Calculation

Am I standing too close to the person in front of me? Too far? Is there a universally accepted line-waiting distance? Should I be able to smell their shampoo? Because I can, and it's coconut, and now I'm wondering if my hair smells weird to the person behind me.

I take a half-step back, immediately second-guess myself, then compromise with a quarter-step forward. This tiny dance has now become my sole purpose in life.

The personal space bubble in lines is the most fragile ecosystem on earth. Too close, and you're a creep. Too far, and you're creating dangerous gaps that invite line-cutters—the apex predators of the retail world.

Minute Three: Cart Inspection Self-Consciousness

Everyone can see what I'm buying. That's fine. Totally normal groceries here. Nothing embarrassing. Except—wait—why did I put the hemorrhoid cream right on top? Could I casually rearrange things without drawing attention? Too late. The guy behind me definitely saw it. I'm not even going to think about what HE is thinking. Focus.

My face flushes as I strategically reposition a box of crackers to create a privacy shield around my more personal items.

I always marvel at people who confidently purchase embarrassing items without the protective camouflage of "normal" groceries. Just walking up with pregnancy tests and nothing else. These people are not overthinking anything. They're living in a freedom I cannot comprehend.

Minute Four: The Existential Spiral

Wait—did I remember to put the divider down for the person behind me? That's basic line etiquette. What kind of monster doesn't put down the divider? Now if I reach for it, it'll be awkward because too much time has passed. Will this social failure haunt me at 3 AM someday?

Also, why are we still using plastic dividers in 2025? There must be a more sustainable option. Maybe bamboo dividers? Wait, that would be worse. Focus.

What am I even doing with my life? Standing in lines. We spend so much time in lines. If I added up all the hours I've spent in lines, would it equal weeks? Months? Is this what humanity has evolved for—to master the art of waiting in lines?

The line hasn't moved for 47 seconds, and I've already contemplated the entire human condition.

Minute Five: Phone Decision Paralysis

To phone or not to phone? That is the question.

If I take out my phone, I'll look like I'm too important to be present in this line. But if I don't, I'm just staring at the back of someone's head like a weirdo. Maybe I should just check it quickly—but wait, what if the line suddenly moves right as I unlock it? Then I'll be that person holding everyone up because I'm scrolling through Instagram.

Also, my battery's at 27%. Is that enough? What if there's an emergency later and I've wasted precious battery life looking at memes in the checkout line?

I decide against the phone, leaving me with absolutely nothing to do but continue thinking, which is precisely how we got into this mess.

Minute Six: Cashier Analysis

The line moves forward. Progress! I'm now close enough to observe the cashier's technique.

She's fast. Really fast. But is she in a good mood? Her customer service smile seems strained. Did the person in front of me say something rude? Should I be extra nice to compensate? Maybe I should have a little joke ready? No. Forced jokes are worse. That’s how people end up talking about their rash at checkout.

Wait—what if she talks to me and my brain just...reboots? One second I’m normal, and the next I'm saying, "Yes good nice...bag...store...love yes." while my face cycles through seventeen different expressions. Focus.

Wait—do I have cash? I never have cash. Why would I even think that? I have my card. But what if the card reader is down? Does anyone still accept cheques? I haven't seen a cheque book since 2012. What if today scammers finally hacked my bank account and my card declines.. FOCUS!

The mental preparation for a 30-second interaction with the cashier now requires the same concentration as defusing a bomb.

Minute Seven: The Item Arrangement Strategy

Should I put the heavy items first? Or arrange by category? Is there a correct conveyor belt etiquette I'm unaware of? The cashier definitely judges people based on how they arrange their items. I'd judge people if I were a cashier. Is that bread going to get squished? Should I hold it separately?

I begin organizing my items in my basket, preparing for the moment I'll need to transfer them to the conveyor belt. This is not normal behavior. I am aware of this.

Normal people just... put their items on the belt. Without choreographing the entire performance like it's the opening ceremony of the Grocery Olympics.

Minute Eight: The Payment Anxiety Pre-Game

Do I insert the chip? Tap? Swipe? Each store has different preferences, and somehow I always choose wrong. And when exactly do I run my card? While they're still scanning? After the total? There's a perfect moment, and I consistently miss it.

What if the tap doesn't work today? It works every time, but what if TODAY is the day it fails? Then I'll have to insert the chip and—oh god—enter my PIN oh no—I've forgotten my PIN because I always tap. What IS my PIN? I know it, I KNOW I know it, but suddenly I can't remember if it starts with a 4 or a 7. Maybe I should check it now. I think I wrote it down somewhere in my phone, hidden in a note disguised as a grocery list or maybe a contact entry under a fake name. Now I'll have to frantically scroll through my phone while everyone watches and judges my poor memory and terrible security practices.

I surreptitiously study the payment terminal from afar, trying to determine what method the current customer is using. This is valuable intelligence that might prevent me from the dreaded "Oh, not yet" from the cashier.

I also begin the Great Wallet Location Pat-Down, even though I literally just used my wallet 20 minutes ago and it's definitely in my purse.

Minute Nine: The Bagging Philosophy Crisis

Paper or plastic? Neither is a great option environmentally. I should have brought reusable bags, but of course, they're all sitting in my car. They're ALWAYS in my car. Every single time. Even though I was specifically coming to get groceries. But I convinced myself "I'm just getting two or three things" which has never once been true in the history of grocery shopping. Now I'll either destroy the environment or pay $1.99 for another reusable bag that will join the colony of forgotten bags in my trunk.

Also, there's an art to bagging groceries. Cold items together. Chemicals separate from food. Distribute weight evenly. Don't put heavy things on the bread. The bagger doesn't know my system. Should I offer to bag my own groceries? Is that insulting to the bagger? Is it weird that I care this much about how my groceries are bagged?

What if the line suddenly moves quickly and I can't bag fast enough? Everyone will be watching while I fumble with my items, dropping apples and chasing rolling cans. I'm sweating already just thinking about it.

The Final Countdown: Social Script Rehearsal

I'm next in line. This is not a drill.

Hi. Hello. Hey there. Which greeting sounds most normal? Should I ask how they're doing, or is that annoying when they have to answer the same question hundreds of times a day? Do I make eye contact the whole time or will that come across as intense? What's the perfect balance of friendly but not weirdly over-familiar?

Wait—is that my neighbor in the next checkout lane? Oh no. Not today. I can't handle this additional social interaction. Maybe if I turn slightly and sort of... crab-walk my way forward, they won't notice me. Why is the universe testing me like this? One interaction at a time, please! Focus.

In the final moments before my turn, I'm mentally rehearsing a basic human interaction I've successfully completed thousands of times before. Because apparently, practice makes... more anxiety.

The Plot Twist: When It's Finally Your Turn

After all that mental preparation—the rehearsed greeting, the payment readiness, the carefully planned item arrangement—something inevitably goes wrong.

The card reader doesn't work. They need to do a price check. The person in front of me needs a manager. The universe laughs at my carefully constructed plans.

Or worse, everything goes perfectly smoothly, and I'm left with all this unused anxiety, like bringing an umbrella and being disappointed it didn't rain.

The Universal Truth of Line Waiting

Here's what I've learned after countless hours in countless lines, thinking countless ridiculous thoughts: everyone's inner monologue is a little unhinged when left to its own devices.

Some people are just better at putting their brain on airplane mode. Those people probably don't replay the entire line-waiting experience later while brushing their teeth, analyzing whether they seemed "normal" enough.

But for the rest of us—the overthinkers, the analyzers, the what-if specialists—a simple line becomes a mental obstacle course. And that's okay. If nothing else, we're never bored.

Because when you think about it, the real adventure isn't what happens when you reach the front of the line. It’s surviving the absolute circus your brain throws while you're waiting.