Ding!

The Spark app flashes a new offer. It’s an Express Shop with a delivery address about ten miles away. I quickly scan the shopping list, checking my “Hard No” criteria. My eyes dart down the screen:

• No 20-pound jugs of cat litter? Check.
  
• No alcohol? Check.
  
• No 50-pound bags of dog food? Check.
  
• And most importantly… no 40-bottle flats of water? Check. Check.
  

I glance at my watch. The time needed to complete this shop fits perfectly into my morning strategy. If the Spark Gods are shining on me, my orders arrive in a specific sequence with a predictable delivery radius. Despite the slow start to the morning, this order is a total “Goldilocks.” It’s just right.

I hit Accept.

Immediately, the transformation begins. I throw on my high-vis vest, swing my phone-holder lanyard over my head, and strap on my crossbody purse. A quick tap to of my smartwatch insures that every step will be tracked and my heart rate monitored. My car keys are clipped to the cart via a carabiner for maximum efficiency.

As my children have so lovingly pointed out, I am “extra.”

At almost fifty-four, I am finally owning that title with pride. I am extra. And today, being extra is exactly what’s going to get this shop done in record time.

Maximum efficiency.

I lean into a very specific kind of German Protestant efficiency. You can take the girl out of the Lutheran work ethic, but you cannot take the work ethic out of the girl. I will drill down into a task until I reach maximum efficiency—even this.

I’ve written before about the steady, judging gaze of my Germanic ancestry. My lineage ran a direct route from the Rhine River Valley to the outskirts of Lancaster County, Pennsylvania. Growing up, the phrase “we are made of good stock” was the soothing balm for every adversity. The matriarchs in my family were strong Pennsylvania Dutch women who measured a person’s worth by the tasks they accomplished in a day.

For a long time, that “good stock” felt like a heavy burden—a requirement to stay busy or stay silent. But here, in the aisles of Walmart, I’m repurposing that ancestral drive.

Walmart isn’t just my current ADHD fixation or my dopamine dealer; it’s my personal gym. I view every order I shop as a training session for my next 5K. I’m not just getting paid to work; I’m getting paid to work out. Why pay for a gym membership when you can get paid to power-walk the canned goods aisle?

Every “Express Shop” is a sprint. Every step with a heavy cart is a rep. I am still that woman of “good stock,” but I’ve changed the metric. I am no longer earning my right to “take up space” through exhaustion; I am claiming my space through the sheer, efficient joy of the move.

Find joy in your journey, friends—even in the aisles of Walmart