Some Self-Checkout Therapy

This is the story of a new mommy, a moody self-checkout machine, and a bunch of bananas. Enjoy! 🙂

 

I only had a few items to buy: toothpaste, cream cheese, deodorant, and bananas, so I made my way to the self checkout lane.

I scanned the toothpaste. Beep!

I scanned the cream cheese. Beep!

I scanned the deodorant. Beep!

I put the bananas on the scale and entered the produce code — It’s 4011, in case you don’t know. That’s one of the small bits of useless information I keep stored in my head.

Beep!

“What? Seven dollars for five bananas?! What the…”

I wave over the handy-dandy helper man (HDHM), along with his tiny computer, to assist me. He deletes the last item and walks away.

Let’s try this again…

4011…

weighing…

A LOUD female computer voice: Please remove items from the scanner.

I remove the bananas.

Please remove items from the scanner.

“What?! There isn’t anything on the scanner.” I back up and take a gander at the machine. “Nothing looks wrong…” (somehow those two years at Bible College made me an expert in all things computer).

The error message went away so I put the bananas back on.

4011…weighing…Please remove items from the scanner.

By now, people are staring and I’m ready to go Hulk all over this god-forsaken contraption.

I try to go tell the HDHM again but, as soon as I walk away, the machine starts working.

“Oh good grief. What’s wrong with this thing????”

I walk back up to try it again…Please remove items from the scanner. 

By now, I know the HDHM man personally. His name is Tim. He has a wife, four kids (two boys, two girls), just moved here a year ago from Tallahassee, and is hoping to pass level 103 of Candy Crush tonight. If Tim the HDHM couldn’t help me, no one could. I was beyond help.

Please remove items from the scanner.

Please remove items from the scanner.

“THERE ISN’T ANYTHING ON THE DARN SCANNER!!! FOR THE LOVE OF ALL THAT’S HOLY…”

Just then a very embarrassed-looking young man (probably in his mid-twenties — man, I’m old) came over and whispered, “Ma’am, it’s your stomach. When you stand close to the machine, your stomach is laying on the scale and confusing the machine.”

I didn’t blink.

I didn’t say a word or make a sound.

I didn’t break eye contact with this complete stranger.

I stared into his eyes, my face screaming something like, “This is how I’m going to die. Fat. Clutching my bananas in the self check-out lane.”

I just turned away and put the bananas on the scale once again. To avoid confusing the machine and humiliating myself further,  I moved the lower half of my body away from the register as I stretched my hands out to enter the code. It kinda looked like when you have to hug a creepy person you don’t want your genitalia close to.

Beep! 

Finally.

I look around, grabbed a handful of Butterfingers, and completed my transaction.

To this day, I still stick my butt out when I am weighing my bananas.