I am sharing some BIG feelings today.
Are you filled with warm fuzzies at the mere mention of Costco?
Does being crammed into a warehouse with three hundred of your nearest and dearest inspire a sense of community in your soul?
Do you get psyched for your thimbleful of mixed berry smoothie, even after waiting 15 minutes?
Do you chuckle your way through the buggy pile up in women’s wear? And then pick yourself up a few sensible turtlenecks?
Then you, my friend, are one of them. You are one of the Happy Costco People.
I see all you Happy Costco People.
Blissfully serene. Enjoying your sample of whatever flax/quinoa/acai thing they’re pushing. Pausing for 30 minutes to thoughtfully nod through a food processor demo. Sifting through a mammoth pile of active wear zip-ups (there are only extra smalls left, by the way).
You’re as cool as a 3-pack of cucumbers.
Happy Costco People, I need to know your secret.
Is it a natural love of strangers inhabiting your personal space? Do you view Costco as a spiritual test? Is medication involved?
You see, Costco just does not go down that way for me.
It starts in the morning, as I polish off my last gargantuan tub of Oikos yogurt. I contentedly stare down the barrel of that empty container, and then it hits me, like a stealth tackle from my bulldozer of a son: I have to go to Costco.
And ca-razy town Megan takes it from there.
I spend the rest of the morning crafting elaborate schemes to avoid the trip. To spare you the details, they typically all hinge on me convincing someone else to do it. So the scheming rarely works out. Five hours of pouting later, I concede defeat, and lug my almost-two-year-old to the vehicle. We reach the full-to-the-brim parking lot and I seriously consider doing a 2 Fast 2 Furious-style U-turn and paying triple the amount for yogurt elsewhere. I mean, EACH one of those hundred occupied spaces represent at least one person inside Costco.
It’s just too much for my introverted little heart to take.
Eventually, I find a prime parking spot approximately 5 km from the entrance. I then take a moment to perform my Dwight Schrute pump-up.
This pre-Costco ritual puts about 10 minutes on my sanity clock to get in and out of the store.
Which, of course, is scientifically impossible.
So I almost always have a Costco-induced breakdown.
Buggies careening into mine cause me to run into the arms of one of those two ton teddy bears. Two or more individuals taking up residence in my personal bubble give me crazy serial killer eyes. And I am not even going to start on Sunday afternoon Costco trips. I’ve hidden in the bathroom stall, pathetically singing *all byyyyy my-se-eh-elffffff . . . just wanna be all byyyyyy my-sellllffffffff*-my husband can vouch for that one.
I know I’m introverted. I know I’m not emotionally built for these types of places. I’m not expecting the warm fuzzies you all seem to vibrating with. But there has got to be something I can do. Some way to make it better.
So Happy Costco People. . . .puh-lease won’t you tell me your secret?
It’s only a matter of time before I’ll need to stock up on sensible turtlenecks.