Anxiety, by now, is an old acquaintance. There’s social anxiety, performance anxiety, and the list goes on. There are the classic phobias: claustrophobia, arachnophobia, agoraphobia. All well-known, all recognized. Yet there’s one type no one really takes seriously. It’s more common than you’d think, but it stays in the shadows: supermarket anxiety.
Yes, that one. That restless feeling that creeps up while you’re still in the car, pulling into the parking lot with your stomach in knots and a vague sense of “today’s going to be a mess.” And you’re right: it will be a mess.
First challenge: parking
You circle ten times, muttering silent curses, shooting daggers at the lucky ones loading groceries into their trunks. Eventually, you give up and park at the farthest point on Earth. The expedition begins. You approach the cart rack, euro coin sweating in your palm. You try to insert it smoothly, like a functioning adult. Of course not. The chain won’t come off. Not immediately.
It’s like a mechanical puzzle, with the complexity of a Templar riddle. You jiggle, twist the coin, curse under your breath. At last, the cart is freed. A bitter victory—because the moment you pull it out, you realize one wheel has a mind of its own. No, it won’t be a smooth ride. The cart veers left; you try to control it with your leg, looking like an injured ballerina. Still, you march on, through the killer automatic doors that open and shut faster than the laws of physics allow. You think, “If I get stuck in here, at least I’ve got an excuse to leave.” But no, you’re in. And now, welcome to the microclimate festival.
You hit the produce section and a cold blast slams into your neck, freezing your nervous system. The AC is set to “Arctic,” probably controlled by someone perpetually overheated. You look around, wondering if it’s just you, but no: everyone else is moving forward with resigned expressions, teary eyes, tissues in hand. You try to steer your rogue cart, but every two aisles it needs correcting like an F1 car with a loose steering wheel.
Then you get there: the deli section.
A pocket of unbearable heat. Ovens, stoves, rotisseries. It’s like walking into a sauna—if saunas smelled like roast chicken and fried calamari. You sweat. Unwillingly. Your hair starts sticking, your face flushes red. But you stand your ground. That roast chicken must be yours. Even if you evaporate in the process. When you finally get it, you’re borderline dehydrated.
No time to panic: it’s time for the frozen section. Instant thermal shock, again. Your body can’t keep up. Your hands shake, and you’re pretty sure you see Reinhold Messner waving at you from inside the freezer. You’re just looking for frozen vegetable mix, but by now you’re on a full-blown psychedelic trip. Still, you survive. Roast chicken in one hand, frozen peas in a rebellious cart, you head for the checkout. But first, the drink aisle. Towers of water bottles and wine cases stacked like Jenga. And you, sweating, exhausted, but just alert enough to know: if one beer falls on you, you’re done.
You move quickly, like in a minefield
Finally, you spot a checkout lane. Any lane will do. Even the one with a line that reaches Mars. You queue up behind worn-out people with the same look in their eyes: “Just make it end.” And right there, in your most fragile moment, she appears: the cashier. Calm smile, manicured nails, soothing voice.
You look at her and think, “It’s her. The Angel Woman. She’s Beatrice. We’re saved.” Because the exit is near. Because that automatic door is no longer a threat, it’s salvation. But don’t get your hopes up: she tricks you. Suddenly, she speeds up. She scans your items like a cyborg in a speed challenge. The beep-beep-beep stuns you. You try to keep up, open your bags, toss everything in, look for your card, can’t find it, find it, drop it. Pick it up. She looks at you. You look at her. You no longer understand the world. You’re hot, cold, sleepy, scared.
You have anxiety
And you have to keep it all together, even your life outside that supermarket.
So you try to be stable. The bags, your wallet, the still-steaming chicken, the frozen goods turning into soup. And as you walk out, forehead damp and heart on pause, you realize you made it. You kept it all in balance.