Lily at the Supermarket

Lily Jae Green writes light, playful columns about everyday life, blending gentle humour with a touch of freethinking curiosity. These short pieces explore ordinary moments with warmth, scepticism, and a smile.

The supermarket is a fascinating field of study. You can observe humanity in its natural habitat: somewhere between discounts and delusions.

This morning, I arrived with a list that looked more like a poem than actual groceries: ‘tomatoes, pasta, soap, onions, milk, coffee, maybe some chocolate if I behave.’ I already knew I wouldn’t…

The shopping cart looked at me like I was its sworn enemy. I pulled; it resisted. I pulled again, and it decided to go right. I wanted to go left. Hostilities began.

As I walked through the aisles, I noticed that people have very distinct cart‑driving styles: • rally drivers • lost tourists • philosophers blocking the passage, wondering: right or left? • sprinters brushing past me as if I were invisible.

At one point, my cart rushed straight toward a chocolate display. I swear I didn’t touch anything. I think the cart knows my weaknesses better than I do.

I hesitated in front of the beautiful chocolate display. I take some, I don’t take some… I tell myself: be reasonable, think of your waistline, think, think… about how many you want. I grab two bars, walk a few steps, and… come back for two more.

In the vegetable aisle, the tomatoes gave me a dirty look. They know I’ll forget them in the fridge for three days before turning them into gazpacho.

Then there are the labels: ‘super food’, ‘immune boost’, ‘anti‑fatigue’, ‘anti-ageing’, ‘full of energy’. Every aisle promises to save our existence. I pick up a pack of biscuits and read: ‘High in fibre’. I know it’s not true, but I appreciate the narrative effort.

I always wonder why I come here with a list. The supermarket decides for me. It chooses what I’ll forget, what I’ll buy impulsively, and what I’ll regret later. I’m just a puppet in the grand theatre of aisles.

The cleaning products aisle makes me feel like an adult in training. I look at detergents as if they were magic potions. None of them promises to clean everything on their own, unfortunately.

The frozen aisle is the only place where I feel safe. No one stays long—it’s too cold to think. People grab pizzas like grenades and run away. I like staying a bit, enjoying the rare moment when everything is perfectly still.

The supermarket is the best place to measure mental fatigue and greed: the more exhausted you are, the more useless things you buy. Marketers know it. The aisles know it. My cart knows it. And I pretend not to.

At the ‘express’ checkout—which is never express—someone pays with coins. I wondered if he emptied the church donation box. I watch with the patience of a Tibetan monk… almost.

Critical thinking in a supermarket is simple: don’t believe cereals will solve your problems, don’t imagine organic vegetables have an inner life, and accept that the self‑checkout isn’t evil—just moody.

Scepticism here means understanding that some products promise miracles… and most deliver crumbs.