Generate a Stand-Up Routine

The Existential Dread of the Grocery Aisle

(Walk onto the stage, adjust the mic slightly, look out at the audience with a slightly bewildered, yet amused expression.)

Good evening, everyone! How are we doing tonight? Good. Good. I’m doing… fine. You know, relatively. I was trying to figure out what to talk about tonight, and I realized the thing that causes me the most low-grade, existential dread isn’t politics, or climate change, or even my terrifying search history.

It’s the grocery store.

Specifically, the dairy aisle. Because that place is a labyrinth designed by a bored deity who hates lactose-intolerant people.

You walk in, right? And you just want milk. Simple. But no. You have to navigate the philosophical quandaries of the modern American diet. You’ve got whole milk, 2%, 1%, skim, fat-free, lactose-free, organic, grass-fed, almond, soy, oat, cashew, rice, hemp… I saw a bottle the other day that was just labeled "Enthusiasm." I didn't buy it. Too much pressure.

And then you realize, you don't even know what kind of milk you truly are. Am I a dependable 2%? A wild, expensive oat milk? Or am I just skim milk—mostly water, slightly disappointing, but technically present?

(Pause for a beat, shrug.)

The worst is when you’re trying to compare prices. Because they don't make it easy. One brand is selling it by the half-gallon, one by the quart, one by the "family size," which I assume means enough to baptize a small child. I need a mathematician, a protractor, and maybe a small abacus just to figure out if the fancy organic cashew paste is a better deal than the cow’s actual secretion.

And the entire time, you’re holding your phone, because the only thing more anxiety-inducing than the milk aisle is the self-checkout.

Self-checkout is where the cashier just outsources their emotional labor to you, the consumer. It’s like, “Here, you scan the twenty items, you bag them awkwardly, and if you mess up, a judgmental robot voice will publicly shame you.”

(Adopt a robotic, slightly accusatory voice): “UNEXPECTED ITEM IN THE BAGGING AREA.”

I hate that voice! It’s never an unexpected item! It’s my keys, or my wallet, or the crushing weight of societal expectation! It feels like that machine thinks I’m trying to steal a single lemon. And I want to lean in and whisper, "Look, Brenda, if I was going to steal something, it wouldn't be a lemon. It would be the entire bulk bin of dark chocolate almonds. Get off my back."

And the worst part of the self-checkout is the produce scale. That thing is just a lie detector test for your shopping habits.

You put your bell pepper on the scale, and it asks you, "What is this?" And you have to scroll through 400 pictures of tropical fruit you’ve never heard of. Is it a green pepper? A red pepper? Is it a "Capsicum annuum"? I don't know! I’m just trying to make fajitas!

(Lean in conspiratorially.)

And let’s be honest, we’ve all done the thing where we buy the expensive organic asparagus, but when we get to the scale, we just hit the button for "banana."

(Widen eyes, look around quickly.)

Because bananas are 59 cents a pound! And asparagus is like, the price of a small car payment! And the machine doesn't know! The machine just goes, "Okay, that looks like a very long, green banana. Enjoy your smoothie."

I’m not proud of it. But sometimes, you have to choose between moral integrity and being able to afford rent. And honestly, the only thing that separates us from anarchy is the fact that the grocery store only accepts Visa.

So next time you’re in the dairy aisle, staring down the barrel of 15 different types of fermented yogurt, just remember: you are strong. You are capable. And if you need to buy a head of lettuce and tell the machine it’s a sweet potato, I won't judge you.

Thank you! Try the enthusiasm milk! Good night!

(Exit stage.)