I don’t gamble.
I never learned to play poker. Although I’m told that I have a great poker face (which my husband might argue comes from years of experience of giving him the cold shoulder silent treatment every time I’m angry at him.)
I may have purchased 3 LOTTO tickets in my entire life- but only when the prize is over $200 million dollars (why waste my time with just $100 million?)
But for some reason, every time I need to choose a checkout lane in Publix I seem to always bet on the wrong horse.
It’s always a crap shoot when I approach the front section of the store with a cart piled high with groceries. There’s just so much pressure in choosing the correct line because whichever lane I choose no matter what the odds- I have to go all in – there’s no turning back regardless of how much I hedge by balancing one leg out past the magazine rack in the next aisle over and the opposite toe just past the gum next to the woman behind me to make it perfectly clear that yes, I am in both spots – so don’t even think about going ahead of me.
I have to make that instant decision that will impact whether I will be out with just a swipe of my credit card or if I will be regretting that I didn’t take the time to pee before I left the house.
I always wait to unload even one item until I can get a feel for the person paying at the cashier. So many factors go into my decision making process:
–Are they counting change from their crocheted fringed handbag? Pass!
– Are they over age 80? Automatic Pass!
– Are they searching for coupons in their pink pocket file folder? Pass!
– Are they chatting it up with the cashier? – You know the type- those folks that ask people about their cat or talk about last night’s game – Pass!
But no matter how confident I am when I finally choose – somehow the odds are never in my favor and I end up choosing the underdog.
But I suppose the hardest part about the betting process of lane picking is not necessarily the people in line in front of you but rather, the person who is packing the bags .
Nine times out of ten, at least here in Florida, the Bagger is always over the age of 90 and I feel guilty even allowing them to pack my food let alone when they offer to help me to the car. Am I really going to let this man who is old enough to be my grandfather unload my groceries for me and still justify my gym membership?
When you are faced with a tough decision you have to know when to hold em and know when to fold em. Go with your gut. Odds are you’re probably wrong anyway but at least you can catch up on your gossip magazines.