I have fallen prey to the siren song of the discount, the ever-present lure of a bargain. Yes, I have started shopping at Costco. It's worlds away from regular, everyday shopping, and I like it.
And why not? It's a land of wonderment, where you can buy gallon jugs of olive oil, rice by the barrel, car tires, tube socks, books, and cakes that are layered in so much chocolate it would make Willy Wonka blush. I bought a jug of laundry detergent in February for about $9 (I had a coupon, natch) and I'm still using it. I got a package of paper towels that I had to lash to a dolly. I almost bought a package of 24 pairs of underwear, but I decided that was too much pressure.
It really is a hopeful place, when you get right down to it. Buying in that volume is like saying "YES" to your life -- "Yes! I will live to finish that six pounds of coffee! Yes! I have canned peaches until the END OF TIME! Take your single-serving pouch of tuna and BITE ME!" (You'll want to twirl down the aisles and possibly toss your hat in the air like a crazed Mary Tyler Moore. Resist the urge.)
You can spot the newbies right away. They're the ones picking up two-pound cans of Chicken Noodle Soup and going, "Oooohhh..." They're the ones raising a three-pack of barbecue sauce and saying, "Now who in their right mind would buy this much?" But they're also the ones who wind up at check out with six of those three-packs so you know the conversion happened somewhere, probably in the wine department. (The store is big on samples.) I imagine one of the adults sitting in their kitchen about three hours later, weeping, surrounded by boxes and boxes of Popsicles, toothpaste and paper plates and thinking, "It's all just too much..." Even in bulk, one must practice moderation.
It sure beats clothes shopping, as far as I'm concerned. Buying big at Costco is encouraged. Buying big in clothing stores, not so much. I have an upper limit of about 20 minutes for clothes shopping, and I'm done. It's not a matter of not knowing what I'm looking for. I've been reading fashion magazines since 1977; I'm aware of what skirt goes with what blouse. When you're not a Size 6, though, it can be discouraging. You walk from rack to rack, pulling pieces to look at and trying to silence your inner critic:
"The horizontal stripes on this sweater look like a landing strip. I'll have planes circling, waiting for clearance."
"If I wear this blouse, my boobs will look like they have their own ZIP Code. They're there. We're aware. We don't need to announce them."
"Ok, these jeans might as well have a bull's eye painted on the ass."
And if I'm actually able to find things in my size that don't have cutsie sayings or pictures of cows on them, trying them on is, well, trying. Personally, I think the government should forget about waterboarding. Trying on clothes in a cramped dressing room, with a mirror the store probably salvaged from a carnival, under those not-entirely-flattering lights (the heat lamps at McDonald's would be a better choice) is a real and common form of torture. I'm serious. After three outfits the terrorists would be in tears.
If the pants I found fit in the waist, I guarantee they'll be five inches too long. (I never understood this. I'm 5'7"-- who the hell are they designing for?) If they are the right length, I have to practically lie on the floor to get them zipped. This is, invariably, when the sales person comes to check on me, and I'm sure she's quite alarmed when my muffled response comes from five feet lower than where she expected it.
Salesgal: "How are you doing in there?"
ME: "As G-d as my witness, I'm never shopping again. From now on, I'm wearing a nylon tent everywhere. Oh, I hate my liiiiiiffffeeee..."
Salesgal: "Do you need another size?"
ME: "I need a cupcake. Back off."
Salesgal: "All righty, my name is Sandy, if you need anything, let me know!"
I walked out of that store with a pair of earrings. It was not a successful venture.
I have been doing quite a bit of shopping online, which bypasses the retail carnival-mirror experience, and allows me to do the whole self-loathing bit in the privacy of my own bedroom. Unfortunately, if something doesn't fit, you have to do that "walk of shame" thing to return it. It's gotten to the point where the kid at the UPS store has started to recognize me.
UPS Kid: "No luck this time?"
ME: "No, they're weren't 'me.'"
UPS Kid: "Did you get the capris? It's a tough look to pull off, you know."
It's a lot of smugness from a 17 year old wearing a name tag and a Batman belt buckle.
I have to work up the courage to shop for clothes, because it's a necessary evil. It is also a solitary activity, because all my friends are slim and fit, and bless their hearts, they don't always understand that it's hard to find things when you're shaped like a Hershey's Kiss, and when I'm trying on the sixth little black dress that looks like it's designed for Doris Roberts, it's not terribly encouraging to hear, "Oh, that's....cuuuuute...." However, when I shop with a buddy we usually wind up with hot pretzels and or a vanilla latte afterwards, so it's not a total loss.
So I'll keep shopping at Costco, and enjoying my box of 600 garbage bags. It fits the can, they're always in style, and they have cute little twist ties. That's fun. And I may get that 24 pack of underpants after all. Life's a party.
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