There I am on Saturday AGAIN. Every time I go, I swear “this is the last time!” More importantly, every time I go there is someone cursing the exact same thing. Costco is one of those places I abhor, and yet, as if it had a magnetic field around it (and I’m somehow wearing a metallic suit), I keep going back.
Why? I much rather imagine myself as a “farmer’s market” kind of girl–thoughtfully perusing quaint little baskets of slightly imperfect, but 100% local, organic produce from a Mennonite farmer with an overgrown beard straw hat and horse and buggy parked out back…
And yet every Saturday I drive by that market and instead fight my way through crowds at every turn–in the parking lot, at the sample line and in queue for checkout. To top it off, I’m also treated like a criminal upon exit as they check my receipt to confirm I haven’t smuggled out 16 triple rolls of paper towels (a steal already at $12.99!).
I guess I have to face a sad fact: I am the mother of three growing, tapeworm-infested hungry boys. And while the shopping experience itself is beyond bad, the deals and quality are good (sigh).
Shopping at Costco is kind of like dating that “bad boy” back in your 20s. You know the one: the guy who treated you like crap and who you should have dumped but couldn’t quite because, well, ummmm, the sex was kind of great. Maybe I should just skip Costco and take up smoking instead!