Unhip

As I approach the new self-checkout area at a local supermarket, a clerk comes over to guide me. She is probably at least a decade or two older than me, although my sense of age is probably not as sharp as it used to be.

“Be sure to put your bag on the scale and add each item after you scan it. Do you have your own bags?”

“No, for the avodadoes, you should click the ‘enter code manually button.’ See how there’s a number on the sticker?”

It’s not like I’m new to self-checkouts, but as she deftly corrects a few of my actions, it does facilitate a smoother transaction. Usually I have to click the “Get help” button at least once during these things, but today I don’t.

After it’s all over, I make my way to the exit, rolling shopping cart literally in tow. With its turquoise pseudo-Moroccan tile pattern, I think it’s cute – but by its very nature, it can never be hip. Even the word “hip” is un-hip, I fully acknowledge that.

Even though I leave feeling about a hundred years old, the whole thing was somehow quite a satisfying experience.