Grocery store behavior tells me everything I need to know about a person.
The grocery store is not a store. It is a psychological evaluation center disguised as a place that sells yogurt. Every aisle is a Rorschach test. Every checkout line is a moral reckoning. And every single person in there is one of the following people.
The Cart Abandoner
This person parks their cart sideways in the middle of the aisle like they're parallel parking a boat, then wanders three aisles over to squeeze avocados. Their cart is now a roadblock with the structural permanence of a Jersey barrier. When you say "excuse me," they look at you like YOU'RE the problem.
These people also leave their carts in the parking lot. Not near the cart return. Not even close. Just... in a parking space. Like the cart lives there now. Like it's the cart's apartment.
The Avocado Surgeon
This person is handling every single avocado like they're checking softball equipment. Squeeze. Hold to ear. Squeeze again. Put down. Pick up different one. Repeat seventeen times. Eventually select one that is functionally identical to the first one they touched.
If you are this person: the avocado doesn't care about you. It will ripen when it wants. You have no power here.
The No-Basket Athlete
This person went in for "just a few things" and refused a basket because they are a champion of self-deception. Now they're carrying yogurt in their elbows, a baguette under one arm, and a jar of pasta sauce clamped between their chin and chest like a disheveled French intern on their first day.
They will drop something. It will be the pasta sauce. It will be in aisle 7.
The Express Lane Criminal
The sign says "15 items or fewer." This person has 34 items and the audacity of a bank robber. They know what they're doing. They're not confused. They simply believe rules are for other people.
They also pay by check. In 2026. With a pen that doesn't work.
The Phone Call Shopper
Speakerphone. Full volume. In the cereal aisle. Having what appears to be either a therapy session or a custody negotiation while blocking the granola.
Nobody in the store needs to know that Kevin "hasn't changed." We know, Sharon. We can tell by how you're buying wine at 11 AM.
The Free Sample Circler
This person has been to the sample station four times and is now making a fifth approach from a different angle, as though the person handing out tiny cups of smoothie has facial recognition software.
They have not purchased anything. They will not purchase anything. They came here for lunch.
The Coupon Archaeologist
This person reaches the register and opens a wallet that unfolds like a treasure map. Coupons from 2019. Coupons from stores that no longer exist. A coupon that appears to be hand-drawn.
The transaction takes eleven minutes. The savings total $1.40. Everyone behind them has aged.
The Self-Checkout Denier
Four self-checkout lanes are open. All empty. This person walks past them to stand in the only staffed lane behind six other people because they "don't trust those machines."
They trust their phone, their car, their bank, and their pacemaker. But not the barcode scanner at Kroger. That's where they draw the line.
Which One Are You?
Be honest. You're at least two of these people. I'm the No-Basket Athlete and the person who spends 15 minutes in the cheese section reading labels like I'm translating ancient scrolls.
Chef's NoteThe grocery store is a mirror. What you see in aisle 7 — covered in pasta sauce and holding a dented baguette — is who you truly are.
