The Grocery Store Checkout Lane Is My Runway

It started with one simple trip for eggs and almond milk. I’m in the express lane—clearly marked “10 items or fewer”—with exactly 14 items. Some people count, others live.

The woman behind me clears her throat and says, “You know this is the express lane, right?”

I nod. “Yes, and I’m expressing myself. That’s what this lane is for.”

The cashier looks tired. The kind of tired you only get from dealing with humanity before coffee. I hand her my items one by one, very deliberately, as if I’m presenting contestants in a beauty pageant. “This organic kale—Miss Leafy Greens 2025.” Scan. “These cage-free eggs—Miss Oval Elegance.” Scan.

Halfway through, I notice no one is laughing. Which is fine—comedy isn’t for everyone. But respect is.

So I announce, loudly: “I’m putting on a free performance here. Some people charge for this level of charisma.”

The man in front of me drops his receipt and mutters something about “self-checkout.” The woman behind me tries to slide into the next lane, but I block her with my cart. “No, no—you stay. Art is meant to make you uncomfortable.”

When I finally pay, I bow. “Thank you, this concludes the matinee.” I wait for applause. Instead, the cashier hands me my receipt and says, “Have a nice day.”

No ovation. No encore request. But I did leave knowing that, for three glorious minutes, I turned an ordinary checkout lane into a catwalk of entitlement.