Dullsville
I’m standing in front of the self-checkout, merrily inserting various coins into the machine. By the look on my face, you’d think I was in Reno playing a slot machine. I couldn’t be happier, and in support of my joy, Dane digs deep into his pocket, pulls out a handful of silver and copper coins, and offers them to me, saying, “Here, knock yourself out.”
I feel like I’m at a party! I’m loads lighter from carrying less coinage, the remaining grocery bill is tiny after all the change, and I’m thrilled to hear that rumble, clink, clink, clink… Oh no, it won’t take one of my quarters. I reinsert it over and over until finally, the watchful self-checkout attendant notices and comes over.
She instructs me to give the machine time to settle down before inserting it again. She kindly refrains from saying “before inserting it for the hundredth time.” But I’m so determined to get all my coins to disappear while lowering my total grocery bill that I hardly listen.
Ding, ding, ding, all the coins have been swallowed up, and what had been a bill for over a hundred dollars of groceries for me plus tick stuff for the critters is less than five bucks! I excitedly tell Dane how little I’ve paid while pointing to my many bags.
He tries to tell me I actually paid for all of it, but I don’t listen to him either. Coins are free. They’re everywhere—in my car, in my coin purse, in a jar at home. They barely count as real money, I tell him; they're extra.
As we drive away, the joy stays with me. I ignore Dane’s gloom-and-doom lecture about no money being free.
Next, since we’re heading that way, he starts going off about the Kwik Trip cappuccino machine that he feels is out to get him. He claims one pump is not enough caramel but two pumps are too many. Dane’s life will be complete when the sweetness of his caramel mocha perfectly matches his taste buds. I listen and nod.
Then Dane tells me with a grin that he can’t wait to get back to his house. When I ask why, he says he left an overflowing container of recyclables out for collection and by the time he gets home, it’ll be empty.
Wow, I exclaim, that is exciting. I have to drive my recyclables to the dump on Wednesdays and Saturdays. I’m impressed and happy for Dane that he gets driveway service.
But then I think of the free table at our dump. On our last two visits, Dane brought home water bottles that had been left there. One leaked, but the other was a fantastic find. Not long ago, I came back to the car dragging a heavy but perfect-condition, ginormous cot-type lounge chair. Dane’s jaw dropped at the lucky score. It’s already been used for an afternoon nap on the back deck.
It dawns on me that we may qualify as dullards. There’s a fascinating group on social media called “Dull Women’s Club”—there’s also one for dull men—where people from all over the world confess to leading dull lives. (For some reason, when you introduce yourself, it’s important to state your shoe size and mention a banana.)
On our last stop today, Dane and I celebrate when we come out of Kwik Trip with a full crate of bananas that are starting to turn black, for which we paid only $4.90. When it comes nighttime and we're listing our three good things for the day, this crate of bananas tops the list.
On my list tonight I also mention getting rid of the coins that had been collecting. On Dane’s list is his recyclables getting picked up.
Not too many years ago, it seemed we weren't quite so dull, but we fall asleep tonight feeling anything but. After all, the little things that make us happy are the ones that count.