The 10 Types of People That Shop at Trader Joe's

Image via Complex Original

You know her well. Her glaring stares, like daggers to your back. How dare you stand next to her while you both choose between Gouda and Brie?! Granted, it’s a hard choice, but it’s much more difficult for The Superiority Shopper, now that you've stepped into her peripheral.

How do you expect her to pick a slab of cheese while simultaneously making you feel like a lesser person? Doesn’t her black yoga bag give off the allusion of physical superiority? Or her incessant questions of Trader Joe's workers about the nature of just how free the free trade is on that coffee? Respect that yoga. Respect those questions. Respect that cheese.

Not to be confused with The Superiority Shopper, though easily mistaken for one another: The only thing important to this type of shopper is that cell phone and/or text, your sonic discomfort and anything less crucial? A non-factor. Take note, as The Texter stops abruptly in the middle of the store and causes a four-way traffic jam; the especially-small aisles of Trader Joe's of little to no importance to whatever it is he or she is doing.

This one is a chameleon of sorts, disappearing into many different shapes and sizes in the vortex of Trader Joe’s. It could be any person in this photo. Maybe the over-enthused soccer mom, or the part-time nanny from Trinidad, or even the (possible) silver fox playing with his backpack in the checkout line.

They seem nice enough, but beware. If they find out that you personally stood in the way of an extra deal, you will die from a terrible death of painfully awkward eye contact and passive aggressive body language. They stalk the customer service counter waiting to pounce on the next unsuspecting sales associate. Those sprouts in their hand were not up to par, good sir in the Hawaiian shirt, and they want their money back! 

While her intentions are good, her hyper-controlling erratic behavior (and mom jeans) really seems to cramp everyone else’s style. Not to mention the fact that you feel terrible that her children have never tasted any type of sugar (agave syrup doesn't count).

You may be tempted to slip a them a piece of dark chocolate while the mother is berating the Trader’s Joe’s employee about bacon nitrates. But do not feed the Processed Food-Deprived Children. Like bears, they are best not provoked, if only for the psychotic wrath of their parents you will no doubt incur. Also, it's probably illegal, and incredibly weird.

The classic Hipster Business Yuppie: Stuck between two very polarizing worlds within their most inner-being. While yearning and ostensibly inhabiting the laid back, charming lifestyle of the West Coast, the actual natives of the land he's since tried to conquer do nothing but annoying him.

His East Coast-bred, Type-A mentality and brutal Social Darwinism techniques have given him the upper-edge against his fellow startup founders—yes, that copy of The Fountainhead remains hidden at home, but hidden under his bed—and yet he still yearns to wear his “unironic” plaid bow-tie, ironically. Life, 3.0. It's tough. You'll find him staring at the avocados, waiting for someone to ask him why he's staring, so he can try to fascinate you with whatever avocado data-point he can impress you with. Maybe he'll make friends, as evidenced by his daily readings of The 4-Hour Social Life. Alas: This is not a friend you want. You just want the avocado. Nothing more.

The diametric opposite of the Hipster Business Yuppie, the Trust-Funded Bachelor is at complete peace with who he is at this very moment: Most likely a 30-something-year-old corporate analyst, making around $70K, but traveling 200 days out of the year.Not exactly the type of reliable schedule needed for a sturdy relationship, or anything more than a relationship of strictly casual sex and pillow-talk about superfluous pop culture bullshit.  

And how do you think he funds this lifestyle? All that travel, all that Patagonia gear, all that Trust Fund. Sure, he can relate to having a job, just "not being so tethered to it." Can be found lingering in boxer-less sweatpants near the frozen pizza section with a shopping cart already filled with beer, burritos and cookies. Would take you home, but doesn't think the effort is worth it. Ever.

You’ve seen them, staring at the babies dressed better them, wondering if one day they will get to take their quintuplets to J. Crew in the next coming years. They go to Trader Joe's to shop, sure, but also, to stare into the distance at their domestic fantasy.

They’ve worked their asses off at that male-dominated accounting firm, but it’s all been for naught. Her biological clock is ticking, and loudly, too. She dreams of lazy weekdays, strolling her baby through the park while simultaneously holding pinkies with her soul mate. And then starts crying in the middle of the aisle. Which is too small for crying. 

Yes: Babies. Near the top of the shit list. With their deluxe McLaren stroller constantly getting in the way of the guilt-free potato chips, pushed around without a care in the world, occasionally screaming at seemingly arbitrary moments that are actually carefully designed to increase the painful throbbing in your head you walked in with. Babies have it better than anyone at Trader Joe's, if only because they're allowed to express the existential anguish that is shopping at Trader Joe's however they like, and it's perfectly acceptable. They can scream. They can throw things. They can puke. And they're otherwise adored without fail. Babies at Trader Joe's are evil, despotic, and terrible, over-indulged creatures. And there's nothing you can do about them.

Sure: Maybe you have a college degree from a credible four-year university, but can you accurately espouse the terrifyingly silent long-tail health hazards of nitrates? Can you spell “nitrates?” Do you honestly understand the basic principles of supply and demand? Or the reasons why Trader Joe’s is so cheap? You can't. But they can, and they'll do it with their friends, or parents, or on their phone, outloud, in front of you. And this is between their mandolin lessons, their lacrosse practice, and their volunteering hours spent with the nonprofit they founded with they were ten.

Find ways to adore them, aloud. They'll be your bosses in the near future; never too early to kiss ass. But don't patronize them. They're obviously too smart for that kind of thing.

The rumors are true, rookie: You're in the land of cheap food, cheap beyond belief. But why? Don't ask now. Just bask in this moment of glory. These feelings of elation and bliss are fleeting, especially if you're shopping after work.

So divulge in the creamy Gouda section, and yes! That is cheese with truffles in it for only $5.19! But realize you are now standing directly in the middle of the checkout line circling all the way back to the organic produce section, and you're pissing everyone else off.

Stop asking why the food's so cheap. Know some of it's going to be glorious. Know some of it will be terrible. Know that, when food is this cheap, you sometimes have to weigh a certain amount of measured risk into your shopping, which is why everyone else is here. They've accepted that risk. So should you. But first, and very quickly, you should grab that cheese, back away, and get to the back of the line. Now. Before some angry shopper side-checks you into the lowboy fridge with their cart, and writes a really, really angry post about it when they get home.