Grocery Line Epiphanies: Philosophy at the Supermarket

You are standing in checkout aisle four, clutching a single tin of peaches, watching a coupon refuse to scan, and suddenly you realize: your entire mortal life is ticking away right under these fluorescent tubes. Oh, ey up, love. Here we go again. Last week it was having a minor collapse over whether anyone is ever truly "fine" by the frozen peas. Now we're having an ordeal over peaches. Now, I know how that sounds, Nan Bridget. But hang on. You watch that little red scanner laser blink red, and you feel that hot itch creeping up your collar. You start believing the universe has singled you out just to steal your Tuesday afternoon.

Well, it feels personal, doesn't it? Like the universe went out of its way to put the lady with fourteen expired vouchers right in front of your trolley. That's it! That is the trap. You think, if only that cashier moved like a young brakeman throwing a switch, my soul would be at peace. But the old Stoics—fellows like Epictetus, who knew a thing or two about chains—would tell you you've surrendered your whole kingdom to a barcode reader. Epictetus, eh? I reckon he wouldn't last ten minutes at the post office on pension day without getting a twitch. He might've smiled, Bridget. He laid out what they call the dichotomy of control.

There's two piles in this life: things that belong to you, and things that don't. The register tape jamming? Not yours. The rain on the rails? Not yours. The storm kicking up inside your own ribcage? Now, that's yours. It's all about what you do with the kettle while it's waiting to boil, isn't it? You can kick the stove, or you can get the cups down. Swear on my tackle box, that is the honest truth. We treat waiting like a robbery. Like somebody stole five minutes out of our pocket. But time ain't property, friend. It's just a river sliding past. But Earl, chuck, it really does test a body. When you're standing behind someone paying ninety-two pence entirely in coppers...

you don't feel like a philosopher. You feel like screaming. Because you tied your peace of mind to a clock that ain't yours to wind. Marcus Aurelius—man running an entire empire while fighting off plagues and invaders—used to tell himself every morning: "You're fixing to run into meddling, ungrateful, arrogant folks today." He didn't say that to be sour. He said it so he wouldn't be surprised when the world acted like the world. So when the card machine does that little sad beep, it's not a disaster. It's just Tuesday. It's just Tuesday doing its job! When you demand the world move at your dispatch schedule, you're setting yourself up to derail.

Patience ain't gritting your teeth until your jaw cracks; it's looking at the delay and saying, "Well, here I am. Might as well inhabit this minute, too." My cat, Barnaby, has that down to a fine art. Sits on the rug, staring into space for forty minutes, not a single thought about where he ought to be instead. Pure tranquility, that. Animals don't borrow trouble from the next station. Only humans build a tiny prison out of thirty seconds of silence, then shake the bars and holler for the warden. It's funny how we treat five minutes of quiet like a punishment, when mostly we spend our days praying for a bit of peace.

That's the hitch. We run from our own company, even in line for coffee. But if you can find stillness while the receipt paper runs out, nobody can ever truly rush you again. Right then. Next time the tills freeze, I won't glare at the poor lad behind the counter. I'll just breathe, think of old Marcus, and let the world turn. Well. That is about the size of it.