No Human Interaction Required

That welcoming, open posture and the warm, alluring smile...

She stands tall in the center of the room, shoulders down, arms waving in the air, like a music-possessed orchestra director.

But it's not instruments; it's the people's attention that she's steering. A well-timed gesture makes them gasp. A wink of an eye and they suddenly giggle.

She's a wizard of human interaction, glowing with unyielding charm.

And she's not me.

She will never be me.

I'm just admiring her from my shady corner, trying to finger-comb melted ice cream out of my hair.

I'm a bit of a weirdo.

And that's ok. You know how it goes: those who love me, love me because of it, not despite it; and those who don't wouldn't either way, so no need to bother. Not anymore.

There was a time when I bothered a lot. Too much for the small social batteries I was born with. Suppressing the weirdness with the stoic mask of fabricated effortlessness cost me more than I was willing to admit.

I'd squeeze the stress into my system pursuing an idealized "normal", until I'd spend my weekends crawling on the floor of my rented room, all curtains shut, lights off, one song on repeat. No walls were thick enough.

The chilling idea of leaving the house could make me spiral, but I still had to force the mask on and head outside.

Everyone has to eat, and groceries don't buy themselves.

Or didn't yet, but that's not the point.

The simple habit of buying groceries has been quietly overhauled by technology. And now I can buy food for my family and still have energy left to play with my toddler: a sci-fi-themed wonder to 10-years-ago me.

Would you like to see how?

Then come along, as we visit my favorite grocery store here in the Netherlands!

We're lucky enough to live so close that I can shop a little bit during the little guy's daily walk.

We're getting ready to head out. And while he is busy toddling around me, with his shoes held high above his head, I can open the store's app and check what's in the "close to expiration" discounts at my location.

Good for the wallet... and for my conscience!

Reducing food waste and all that.

The app shows how many items are left and the amount I'd be saving. This way I know if I need to out-hurry the competition.

Not today, great! Let's bridle the little one in his stroller, give him back the shoe — best toy ever! — and head outside.

Walking the open galleries of my apartment complex, I can peek at the solar panels on the store's roof before getting to the elevators.

"What should we make for dinner, my little potato?"

"Ma-ma-aam-ma-aam-aaaam!" He wobbles in his seat.

"Sounds like a lovely idea!"

We have some olives and tomatoes rolling around in the fridge; let's see what the app suggests. Enter the ingredients we have, filter for "vegetarian", "cheap", and "quick", and voilà: "Penne alla Puttanesca" is the best match.

(Ok, I cheated and chose the first Italian dish on the list; sue me for missing home!)

Adjust to "3 portions", and hit "add the ingredients to my grocery list".

Ready!

After our loop of the park — where I added a few more items to the list — we arrive at the store.

My eyes wander to the extremely tall, blond lady whose child is grabbing one of those "toy carts" at the entrance. I smile sheepishly: soon my little boy will be pushing one of those too.

Select the "loyalty card" screen in the app, and scan it at the gates; a beeping apparatus is released and blinks green. Now grab the shopping basket, and we can go in.

First stop: the "Free fruit for kids" corner.

A banana is bound to keep the little guy busy while we loop the aisles.

I look at the thing in my hand: the forbidden love child of a gun and a smartphone. It shows my personal discounts, based on my buying history.

Is giving up my shopping behavior data worth the convenience of personalized discounts and suggestions?

Privacy never bought me dinner.

Also, since I mostly buy near-to-expiration items, my history is too erratic for their algorithm to keep up with.

Suckers!

"Oh, hello, friendly floor-cleaning robot. Are you playing any music today?"

He's programmed to avoid physical contact.

A robot after my heart!

Now, back to the gun in my hand.

My grocery list was automatically uploaded there, and every time I scan a new item, it is crossed off, so I can see my progress. No more fumbling around with a piece of paper, with the risk of running into someone. My eyes are free to scan the aisles and lead me on a people-less route.

It also shows how much I spend and how much discount I get in real time. That is such a relief: I used to worry about whether I brought enough cash with me all the time.

See, I don't do well with numbers.

Oh, don't get me wrong, I love math! I used to ask for extra algebra homework as a birthday present. Good times... But that was "numbers on paper": sitting there, quietly, safe in their structured elegance.

"Numbers in my head" is a living, breathing wild beast. One made of dancing digits, seamlessly bleeding into one another. It can't be tamed into certainty.

Not my problem now: machines don't make mistakes.

And we're ready to head for the exit.

Walking past the only human-armed register, my heart breaks for the elderly lined up there. The marooned souls of this future-bound ship, clinging to a life ring made of the past, while we sail further away.

Oh, I remember standing there!

Awkwardly sandwiching myself between people, one of them inevitably covered in cigarette stench, who thinks it's ok to lean against my cart because he is a man and that gives him every right to chip away at my batteries by invading a very purposeful buffer of space with his overwhelming physical and olfactory presence; the other, an elderly lady who somehow "just didn't see me" until she rammed my butt with her cart...

...breathe.

I'd be piling my items on the conveyor belt for everyone to examine and judge, too often, too loudly.

"I don't get how you could eat those; they taste like cardboard!"

And the cashier would keep me hostage with her small talk while passing my items one by one with that painfully loud blip and the speed of a sloth jogging uphill.

"Yes, I am from here."

BLIP!

"Yes, I realize I don't have the local accent."

BLIP!

"Yes, indeed, I sound like a radio host."

BLIP!

That's because of all the rehearsing, lady. Please let me go!

Urgh! Let's shake the sweat of these nightmarish memories away.

Put the "gun" into its pocket on the wall, scan my phone again, and the automatic teller already accounted for everything. Without any aggressive blipping.

Fewer personnel also makes groceries cheaper for everyone. And these machines are solar-powered!

Well, there is still a cheery-looking teenager standing a few meters from us. She will assist those in need and rescan the items of those who were flagged for "suspicious activity".

The algorithm will notice if a usual item suddenly goes missing.

Are you on a diet, or are you stealing those cookies?

Big Brother needs to know.

Not from me.

Not today.

I continue unnoticed.

"Would I like to use my points as a discount coupon?" Of course I would! I know these points would be worth more if spent on some pricey stuff, but we don't buy pricey stuff.

No need to select "Pay with card" as it is the only option.

"Oh, fudge! I forgot my wallet."

Well, let's gift some data to Google so I can pay with my phone instead.

When those unbought cookies show up in my partner's YouTube commercials, we'll know why!

Pack everything under the stroller while the little guy smiles and claps his hands, looking the employee in her eyes. A charming magic trick, performed just for her. She giggles.

Smile.

Please don't talk to me: he's the extroverted one.

No receipt will be printed; it's in the settings. I don't like wasting paper. And it will be in my app either way.

Now, scan the phone again, and through the gates we go!

No human interaction required.

"Have a great evening, madame!" The teenage employee squeals after me.

"I said, no human interaction required," I grumble, avoiding eye contact.