Cashiers. They can be awesome. They can be boring. And, they come in every shape and size, don’t they?
Except maybe this shape. I haven’t seen one like this, yet.
I mean, I’m sure cashiers who look like that exist. I just haven’t seen one yet. Maybe I need to go shopping at an Affliction store or something.
But let’s be real for a minute. What is it with cashiers commenting on the crap I buy?
There are times when I just want to sneak right through that line and hope they don’t notice what I’m buying, or at the very least pretend they don’t notice. Certain supplements would fit this. Certain personal creams and ointments. Certain junk food. Things like that. Or like when I went in and bought six more of the exact same shirt I was currently wearing as I passed through. “You must really like this shirt,” that cashier said to me as he made the connection. Friggin’ no. Don’t do that!
Believe me, I didn’t like myself enough for that moment already. But I really liked that shirt. It was a plain black v-neck. A great undershirt that just fit me. Do I really have to explain why that’s an amazing find when I have a weird body like I do? No, I shouldn’t. So don’t friggin’ do that.
In fact, dear cashiers, commenting on anything in anyone’s cart is something you should never do. If they bring it up or make a joke about it, fine. If they don’t, say nothing about their purchases. Do nothing with their purchases. Just beep. And be done.
Warning. I am about to share way too much information. But it has to be done, peeps.
Last week I bought one of those giant tins of <ahem> condoms at Costco. You know those tins. The sheer size of those things says two things when you walk out with one. “You’re dreaming, pal” or “you’re going to want to do a round of antibiotics after touching me.” There is no middle ground. It would take one man having sex three times daily for six decades to go through a Costco size tin of them.
And I bought one. Because I’m a dreamer, baby.
And I shoved it between a box of almond milk and a pack of twelve-dozen eggs.
Just don’t notice, I kept thinking as the condoms moved closer to the front of the belt. Just play cool, Dan. Just act natural. Nothing here is askew.
The cashier was a normal enough looking 40-something woman sporting an A-line ginger hairdo and a smile which life somehow had permanently fastened to her face. The eggs reached the front. She grabbed the eggs.
And just like that, the condoms which I had meticulously buried, became exposed to the world.