I know it’s petty considering the general upheaval in the world, but alas—this is how we human beings are. We can care very much about the epic, changing-the-course-of-humanity stuff but at the same time become unmoored at the little hiccups in our own miniscule spheres. And in truth, sometimes the hiccups are symptomatic of larger, vaguely disturbing trends. Along these lines, I received depressing news in late May. On top of the wild stew of ominous world events seemingly ready to blow, I made a trip to my favorite grocery store and saw a tiny notice plastered to the badly operating “automatic” door that opens so belatedly that customers nearly walk into it. The note announced that the store would be closing in a few weeks. Period. Not closing for renovations, not relocating just around the corner, just closing. Bang. Now this has been my favorite grocery store not because of the upscale vibe of the place, or the fabulous array of seafood or the gourmet cheese section. In fact, the name of this store ends with the word “Warehouse.” Basically, I like this place because 1.) I can walk to it in a snowstorm and 2.) every checkout aisle features a real human being to ring up and bag your groceries and chat with you. I sighed and immediately thought about the other nearby store—with indisputably better offerings—but with only maybe two h.b.’s ringing groceries at any given time, forcing one in a pinch to go to one of the self-checkout aisles.

Now I have found that the self-checkout aisles are either for those who have a civilized amount of food to purchase (and my former grocery runs generally have not fallen into that category) or those who bring a team with them to keep everything from bottlenecking at the end of the conveyor belt, prompting the disembodied voice to tell you to clear the belt, etc.—which makes me nervous, I’m sorry. Oh—and then there are what I call the “Aloof Ones”—the employees who used to ring up and bag your groceries but now just stand off in the distance watching you with a bored and amused expression as you struggle just in case you try to misrepresent how many doughnuts are in your self-serve bag, in which case they will spring into action, ready to initiate a code red. My first foray into self-checkout was akin to the episode of I Love Lucy when Lucy and Ethel were working the conveyor belt at the chocolate factory. (Check it out! It’s one of my all-time favorite scenes!)

So just when did Big Business start this thing where they actually brainwash us into thinking that it’s much more fun—cooler even!--for us to have to do things ourselves that they used to do for us? And have us pay the same if not more for the privilege? Thinking back, it started very insidiously. Back in 1987 I had just given birth to my first child in a fairly large suburban hospital and was in a euphoric state, probably a mix of some sort of hormonal high, lack of sleep, and amazement at the fact that at last—as in as soon as that baby was out of me—the maddeningly termed “morning sickness” that had become my constant, 24/7 companion—was gone. As wretched as I had felt much of the time (oh, yes—Princess Kate happened to have had the same little problem with her pregnancy, clinically called “hyperemesis gravidarum”), it had not been a pampered pregnancy for me. In fact, in an effort to save up as many days as possible with Baby after he/she was born, I worked a week beyond my due date. So after the big event I was elated but beat, and not at all unhappy about spending the next few days in the hospital lying in bed having my meals and little bundle of joy brought to me.

The morning after, a Wednesday, I think it was my obstetrician who came into my room and started asking the usual follow up questions and then, very smoothly and in a tone that sounded as if she was trying to be nonchalant but nonetheless had a whiff of a sales pitch to it, “How would you like to go home today?” The question barely grazed the surface of my mind, although I do recall being a bit startled. “Huh? Well….um…how long can I stay?” “Oh--well your insurance covers your staying until Friday, but lots of women want to leave the hospital as soon they can and be home in their own surroundings, you know. (Really?! Just who were these women? Women with nannies and maids, no doubt is I believe what crossed my mind.) No brainer here—I was staying through to the last allowable, insured minute, thank you very much. I was enjoying my bubble—nothing I had to do but bond with this enchanting creature and enjoy the meals (I didn’t care a whit what they were) that were brought to me as well as the lovely deluge of good wishes from family and friends. Besides, I was waiting to hear when the big class was going to be held. What class, you ask? Well, you know….the class where they teach you how to, um, take care of your baby….right? Say what? There is no such class? It could not be possible that anyone was going to let me out of the hospital with this tiny bundle of will who was already showing me who was boss when I had no idea what I was doing. But there it was—not only were they going to do it, they were in fact trying to hasten my departure.

Fast forward to 1993, when I had just given birth to our third son. Apparently, so many women had leaped at the opportunity to “get outta there” after having their babies that the grateful insurance companies accommodated them with what became known as the drive-through delivery. I had Baby #3 on a Thursday, I believe, and had to leave on Friday morning. Oh, yes—wouldn’t I much rather take care of myself in my own familiar little house of sweet chaos? Truthfully, it felt amazingly rude and downright uncaring, as if some terrible corner had been turned by the insurance industry—which of course was the case. Over the ensuing years, I recall reading that the State finally had to step in and mandate that insurance companies cover a minimum 48 hour stay, as too many women had hemorrhaged or suffered other side effects of leaving the hospital too soon after giving birth.

So forgive me, but I like the experience of a human being providing a service—which I’m happy to pay for and thus keep someone in a job. I like the increasingly rare times that I call a company and make contact with a friendly and helpful employee, having a polite salesperson ask me if I need something in a different size when I’m in a dressing room, and chatting with the furnace guy when he has to figure out why I have no hot water. But I don’t know—I may be swimming against the tide here, perhaps a generational one that prefers the anonymity of a screen. I’m hoping the tide turns.