It doesn’t matter how many times I have made the decision, I always seem to get it wrong.
It comes at the least opportune time. It comes after a long trip around Big Brand Name Department Store, grabbing groceries for the week, deciding what deodorant is best (and then settling for the cheapest).
It comes as I approach the last hurdle between myself, my car and my home, secure in the knowledge that I won’t starve or stink for another week.
It comes at the checkout line.
I stand, as always, paralyzed by the choice in front of me. Two lines, seemingly identical. Pushing aside the question of why Big Brand Name Department Store is content with the idea of having roughly 5,000 registers with only two open at any given time, a larger decision looms: Which one should I stand in?
I don’t consider myself unintelligent. I’m often dense and stubborn, sure, but reasonably equipped to make rational and well-informed decisions. But every time this relatively simple query is placed before me — a 50/50 chance to choose which line will finish faster and thus get me home without any more delay than necessary — my lifetime batting average is around .000. If the Riddle of the Sphinx involved a need to checkout quickly and only two registers to choose from, I’m forced to conclude I would be Minotaur Chow faster than you could say, “debit or credit?”
Quickly, my mind runs through the possibilities. The line on the left is shorter. Logic suggests it will proceed more rapidly and thus allow me to exit the store faster. But the man at the end of the line has a cart bursting to the brim. He’s either buying for an entire family or a frat (the presence of beer seems to favor the latter). It may take him until Halley’s Comet next swings by to simply unload the cart.
The right line, while longer, seems to feature customers buying fewer items. But there, smack-dab in the middle of the menagerie — a little old woman. Aww. So sweet. It’ll also take her longer to load and pay for the handful of things she’s purchasing than even Mr. Frat on the right will take. She’ll probably even pay by check. She looks like the type who’d pay by check.
I stand paralyzed for an instant, scanning the scene for some hint of expedience, like a shopping version of “Where’s Waldo?” Have I checked out with these cashiers before? Are they engaging each customer with pleasant but time-wasting small talk or getting to the matter at hand? Is another register opening soon? I pass my gaze along the line of unoccupied lanes, hoping for some sign of a guardian angel, beckoning me toward her now-operational paradise.
There is nothing. I turn to my two available options, keeping a eye in my peripheral for anyone who might be trying to cut in front of me, forcing my hand. I pause. And then, finally, I decide. The whole ordeal has taken but a second or two, but I have put more thought into this decision than I have my last few tax returns. Confident with my choice, I roll my cart to the end of the line and wait. I glance beside me at the adjacent line. I nod politely, as if to say, “Sorry, but I’ve got the good lane this time.”
This thought is never correct. Invariably, the other lane is much, much quicker than mine. Maybe my cashier is slow. Maybe Mr. Frat Guy unloads his cart with the speed of Barry Allen. Maybe the sweet little old lady has finally gotten a debit card. But no matter what, my choice is wrong. I could switch lanes, conceivably, but the faster lane — the lane I didn’t choose — is already filling up with new shoppers who have learned from my mistake. Besides, it would feel like cheating to move at this point. I’ve made my bed, now I have to stand, awkwardly leaning on my cart until it’s time to get out of it.
Of course, I haven’t always gotten it wrong. It just feels like it. Often, it seems as though the mind chooses to focus on the negative things that happen — those petty annoyances that cramp an otherwise happy series of events. And there’s a world of things to be happy about. I’ve just finished a perfectly acceptable shopping experience. Heck, I have enough money to be shopping in the first place. If the worst thing that happens is that I have to wait a few minutes longer at checkout, I’ll happily accept that.
When the guy I pity-smiled at passes in front of me, headed to the door, purchases complete, while I haven’t even cleared the tabloid racks yet — that still ticks me off, though.
Jeff McGinnis is pop culture editor at Toledo Free Press. He can be reached at PopGoesJeff@gmail.com or on Twitter at @JeffMac813.
