By any standard, I’m a Creature of Routine. As a result, though I have neither job nor quotidian obligations, my life is as tightly circumscribed as a Trappist monk’s.

I get up, take out the dogs, then feed them and the cat. Next, I reheat yesterday’s coffee while making today’s. Once I’ve achieved an acceptable CQ (Caffeine Quotient) and consciousness has dawned, more or less, I can don the cloak of civilization and boot up my iPad. Then I do things like send and receive emails, check the Doomsday Clock, and see what my Facebook friends ate for yesterday’s lunch.

Those essentials out of the way and more java down the hatch, I’m ready for Phase II, a fancy term for walking the dogs. After that, it’s off to the office, where I’ll spend the next three hours writing and shmoozing (usually one of the former and two of the latter).

And so it goes, one trivial activity after another, each running into the next seamlessly, day after day. This might explain why no major TV network has contacted me about starring in a reality show called “A Day in the Life of the Dope.”

Another part of my routine is my Aldi visits. I never need a shopping cart and rarely need a bag or a list, since I shop several times a week. Beyond that, I probably buy only 25-30 different items altogether, usually no more than four or five each visit. So one day it’s popcorn, lettuce and cheese and seltzer; the next it’s OJ, pasta and dog treats. And on occasion it’s the less frequently replenished ones like cleaning supplies and toilet paper (which if you think about it, can all be considered a cleaning supply).

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A grocery shlep unlike any other

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I always liked to shmooze with the cashiers, but since Aldi put in a bunch of self-checkouts, it’s not practical for me: The cashier’s line attracts peeps with carts jam-packed with stuff, so I’d be stuck in the line just to say howdy-doo and nothing more. And if I actually chatted with the cashier, for even just a bit, I’d incur the wrath of the Mega-Carters.

So last Wednesday, there I was at the self-checkout. I scanned my four items, tallied them up, swiped my card, then — Holy Frappin’ Moly! — a message on the screen fairly screamed at me, “Card denied!”

“The hell!” I shouted.

How could my card be denied? I’d just used it the day before and everything had been pukka. This must be a slip-up with the computer, I decided, and gave my card another swipe. That too got denied. I swiped again, was denied again, and finally one of the workers came over.

“OK,” he said, “let me run it through the checkout at the register.”

Which he did … with the same damnable results.

In a flash, we were joined by another worker. He fiddled with the computer, checked this and that, and finally said, “It’s a C-124.”

“A C-124?” I said. “That’s an army cargo plane.”

“Not in this case,” he said. “It’s computer code which means your bank has disabled your card.”

“Disabled my card?” I repeated numbly.

“Yep,” he said. “Disabled.”

With my card disabled and me completely gobsmacked, I did the only thing I could: Paid for my stuff in cash and then sped home and got my credit card company on the horn.

Eventually, I got connected with someone who pulled up my record and ran through the expected questions: Did I lose my card? Did I lend my card to anyone? Was my card on me the whole time? I answered honestly: No. No. Yes.

Then he asked if the day before I’d made two $550 purchases for gold bullion.

Gold bullion? Would I buy gold bullion?

Better questions are:

Would I buy a metal detector to search for Blackbeard’s treasure? Maybe.

Would I buy all the maps for Oak Island? Probably.

Would I buy a pirate costume for Halloween, complete with eye patch, hook, and robot parrot? Hell yeah!

But gold bullion? Fergit it.

After further back and forth with the operator, everything was squared away. Since their computers had spotted those charges as phonies, they’d never been charged to my account, so I was free of that stress. The only remaining issue was to get my new card issued, which took a mere minute and was pain-free. If only its consequences had been the same.

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Return to the scene of the crime

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It’s no secret I’m a leftover from a distant time, back when credit cards were looked at askance. Back then, we thought if you couldn’t pay for something upfront, you didn’t need it — especially at an interest rate of 27%. Now of course, the exact opposite is true: If you can’t afford something, and you don’t need it anyway, then just charge it. What the hay, worse comes to worst, it’ll be your next of kin’s heartache, not yours.

Essentially, the credit card is King. And I discovered this on my first card-less trips to Aldi.

I got my usual few things, and out of habit, went to the self-checkout. Once I realized that was no-go, I skulked over to the cashier checkout. Or more exactly, the cashier checkout line. Because there were two folks ahead of me, each with carts that looked like they were resupplying the Sixth Fleet.

Both people looked at me; I gave each an ingratiating smile, figuring they’d let me go ahead of them. For all the good it did, I might as well have given them The Hawaiian Peace Sign — with both hands. Instead, they turned around, checked out their Cornucopias on Wheels, and acted like I wasn’t even there, let alone that I was there, with two bananas, one quart of milk, and a block of Edam.

Why was that? Why didn’t they let me check out before them?

It couldn’t have been an issue of time, since my checking out wouldn’t have held them up more than a minute, if that.

It also wasn’t that I’d been rude, since I hadn’t said or done anything, and hadn’t even been in their sight for more than five seconds.

The more I thought about it, the more I came up with the same conclusion: For whatever reason, they simply had a lapse in good manners — something that was drilled into me since childhood.

So what did I do about it?

I did the only thing I could: I decided, since I believe good manners are important, I’ll try my level best to never let mine lapse.