There was a time in my life when I got excited about going out.
Concerts. Dinner. Shopping for actual cute things. Maybe an unnecessary purse.
Now?
Costco opens at 9.
And because we have the Executive Membership, we get to go in before the “regular” members.
Very exclusive. Very elite. Very please ignore the fact that I am standing outside a warehouse at 8:57 in the morning waiting for bulk toilet paper.
You’d think this special early shopping hour would mean casually strolling through a nearly empty Costco, sipping my coffee while an employee softly welcomes me to the upper echelon of warehouse shopping.
No.
Apparently, every other idiot in the area also paid for the Executive Membership.
So, there we all are at 9 a.m., standing outside in a line that looks like Costco announced there are only seventeen rotisserie chickens left on Earth.
It’s giving Black Friday. Except we’re here for garbage bags.
And here's the thing: I love Costco.
I do.
I prefer it over Sam’s Club. No hate to my Sam’s people. This isn't that kind of blog. We don't need warehouse-club division in America. We have enough going on.
But Costco has me figured out.
Because I can walk through those doors with a perfectly reasonable list:
Toilet paper.
Paper towels.
Garbage bags.
Maybe chicken.
That's it.
Twenty minutes later, I'm standing in the middle section holding a crewneck, two pairs of jeans, socks, a bath towel, some kind of seasonal decorative basket and a 14-pack of something I have never purchased individually in my entire life.
What happens in that middle section?
Does Costco pump something through the vents?
Because suddenly I'm like:
You know what I need? New socks.
Do I need new socks?
Absolutely not.
But these are Kirkland socks.
Put them in the cart.
And can we talk about the clothes?
I never thought I'd become the woman who gets excited about Costco clothes.
Yet here I am.
“Ohhhhh, look at this crewneck.”
Heather. It's a sweatshirt.
“BUT IT'S ONLY $14.99.”
Into the cart.
I'm not boujee. Trust me. But apparently, I have reached the stage of adulthood where finding a cute pair of pants next to a pallet of laundry detergent feels like a successful shopping trip.
And then we get to the appliance section.
This is where I need supervision.
I can innocently wander down the pots-and-pans aisle and somehow leave owning a Ninja juicer and a Nespresso machine.
Yes.
I own both.
The Nespresso gets used.
The juicer and I are currently taking some time apart.
Actually, I have a history with gadgets.
I get very Cliff Huxtable about them.
I see something that promises to completely revolutionize my life and immediately think, THIS IS IT. This is who I am now.
I'm a juicing person.
I'm an air-frying person.
I'm a smoothie person.
I'm a person who meal preps.
I'm a person who owns the special container for the thing.
And for approximately six business days, I AM THAT WOMAN.
Then the gadget gets pushed slightly farther back on the counter.
Then into a cabinet.
Then eventually into the Appliance Graveyard, where it lives with several other machines that were also supposed to change my life.
Do I have commitment issues?
No.
I don't think so.
I mean, I've been married forever.
I just can't seem to maintain a long-term relationship with a kitchen appliance.
But in my defense, have you seen food prices?
I bought the juicer with dreams.
Fresh juice every morning.
Apples. Carrots. Celery. Ginger. Maybe I'd become one of those women who casually says things like, “I made a fresh green juice this morning.”
Then I went grocery shopping.
Six dollars for a bag of apples?!
Oh.
Well.
Guess we're not juicing anymore.
I cannot emotionally handle watching $14 worth of produce turn into eight ounces of liquid.
At these prices, I'm eating the apple.
Every part of it.
Don't leave too much around the core either. We are getting our money's worth.
And that's Costco in a nutshell.
You go in because buying toilet paper in quantities large enough to survive a small apocalypse somehow saves money.
Then Costco whispers:
Wouldn't you also like a new blanket?
Well...
Maybe.
And a six-piece Pyrex set?
I mean, ours are getting old.
How about a gazebo?
COSTCO, I LIVE IN THE MIDWEST IT'S SEPTEMBER.
But how much is it?
Because that's how they get you.
There is always something you didn't know you needed until Costco stacked 300 of them directly in your path.
And somehow, the fact that it's sitting on a wooden pallet makes it feel like a financial opportunity.
This isn't impulse shopping. This is SAVINGS.
At least that's what I tell myself while loading my bulk paper towels, new crewneck and completely unplanned household appliance into the car.
Then I drive home feeling strangely accomplished.
Did I spend $327 when I went in for toilet paper?
Maybe.
But did I save $4.60 by buying 36 rolls at once?
You're damn right I did.
And I'll probably be back next week.
At 9 a.m.
With the other Executive Members.
Standing outside.
Feeling elite.
Waiting to be let into the warehouse so Costco can show me what else I apparently need.
So… apparently this is what excitement looks like in adulthood.
And you know what?
I'm okay with it.
Now excuse me. I need to go see if Costco has their fall crewnecks and mums out yet.