The Bag Is in the Bagging Area

February fifth.

The self-checkout machine at the grocery store does not believe I am a real person. I don't mean that philosophically. I mean that I placed the reusable bag in the bagging area, the one I've had for two years, the one that weighs exactly the same amount every time, and the machine looked at it, considered it, and told me to remove the unexpected item. It was not an unexpected item. It was a bag. I stood there for a moment the way you do when a piece of technology has said something so incorrect that your brain briefly stalls trying to find the charitable interpretation.

I pressed the little 'I already have a bag' button. It did not accept this. I pressed it again. A light blinked. Someone in a red vest walked past and did not make eye contact, which I respect as a professional choice. Eventually the screen refreshed, I scanned my six items, and the whole thing was over in less time than the bag argument had taken. I paid. I left. I stood outside in the cold for a second and thought: this is what Wednesdays are.

the face of someone being asked to place item in bagging area for the third time

I'm not complaining, genuinely. There's something almost comforting about an errand that is exactly as much of a small obstacle as it always is, no more, no less. The bag went in the bag. I have eggs and a thing of yogurt and the oat flour I kept forgetting for three weeks. Gerald gets repotted this weekend if I can get myself to the hardware store, which is a whole separate errand that I have also been postponing. One thing at a time. The self-checkout machine and I will probably meet again. I feel ready.

mission accomplished. barely.