How I Learned to Embrace Myself at the Walmart Self-Checkout

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So, picture this: I’m at a Walmart in Alabama, making a real effort to not be my typical New Jersey self. You know, trying to avoid my usual rush and frantic energy that’s twice as fast as everyone else.

Every checkout line was a mile long, so off I went to the self-checkout. My husband, who loves this setup, is all about efficiency and the independence it brings. Me? I’d rather deal with an actual cashier. I like cashiers—they feel like family.

To put it simply, self-checkout and I have a tumultuous relationship. I always seem to trigger the dreaded red light, which sends me into a mini-panic. Feeling like I’m in trouble is my personal nightmare. My track record is pretty stellar: A-student, captain of the team, president of clubs, honors graduate, and a perfectionist to boot. You’d think I could handle a self-checkout, right? Nope. The more I try, the more chaotic it becomes.

Once, I scanned a bottle of wine and the entire machine went haywire. My heart sank. Had I done something wrong? Am I under 21? Nope, Willie is 25, so that makes me 27, right? It was then I discovered that alcohol is a no-go on Sundays in our county.

This time around, things seemed to be going smoothly—until I heard the machine blare, “There is an unauthorized item in the bagging area.”

“What?!” I exclaimed. “There’s no unauthorized item! No wine! It’s not even Sunday!” I found myself with my hands on my hips, talking back to a machine. Then I spotted it: a tube of Dora the Explorer toothpaste, not mine, stuck in the corner.

Frustrated, I kicked the tube to the floor, but the machine interpreted this as a sign of aggression: “Please wait for assistance.”

“I don’t want to wait!” I shouted, waving my hands wildly because, well, I’m part Italian and it’s just what I do. “I didn’t do anything wrong!” I felt a wave of injustice wash over me. This machine was driving me crazy, and I refused to play along.

But in reality, I wasn’t just battling the machine; I was wrestling with all the mixed messages I’ve absorbed throughout my life. You know the ones: Be perfect, yet be authentic. Don’t stand out, but shine. Speak your truth, but only if it’s well-received.

Eventually, I managed to convince the machine to scan the rest of my items, but then came the coupon. “Drop coupon in slot,” it instructed. I did as I was told, only to see a sign saying not to drop coupons without cashier approval.

The red light flared up again. Despite my best efforts, I was still in trouble! I nearly cried, but then something unexpected happened: I smiled. I started to laugh. Suddenly, I felt liberated from the burden of trying so hard.

I realized I can’t win at this game—not with the self-checkout, not with my need to please others, not with anything. And when you figure out you’re playing a game you can’t win, the only option left is to surrender.

In that moment, the self-checkout machine gifted me with clarity. I finally grasped the futility of striving for self-acceptance. I can’t earn it; I can only embrace it. Failing felt amazing because it meant I could finally stop running and discover what’s been there all along.

A clerk approached me with a hint of accusation in her voice, “Did you drop a coupon in the slot?”

“Yes, I did,” I replied calmly. She was just doing her job. I didn’t have to take her tone to heart. I could let go of the pressure. Once we sorted everything out, I walked out with my groceries, feeling lighter than ever. The sky above felt vast and welcoming.

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In summary, I learned that accepting myself doesn’t require perfection, and sometimes, it takes a self-checkout machine to remind us of that truth.