Are 57 rolls of 10-ply toilet paper worth the trip to Costco?

Every time my Costco membership lapses, I swear never to renew it.  I remember panic attacks as I precariously wedged boxes of peanut butter cups the size of my car into my already overstuffed cart.  But, inevitably we run out of toilet paper, my sons and husband complain about the single ply that I buy on sale at Safeway, and I get tired of paying $200 at my fancy island grocery store for the 3 items in my cart.  So, I drive the 15 miles over the Agate pass bridge to the Olympic Peninsula, wade through the sea of cars in the Costco parking lot, have my photo snapped at the customer service desk and start shopping. 

As I fill my cart, I am simultaneously shaming myself, judging others, and certain others are judging me.  Where else are we so acutely reminded of our American excess than Costco?  At first I try to sooth myself with self-talk.  Then I seriously begin hoping for a natural disaster to justify the heaping stores of food that will soon fill my shelves.  When the earthquake hits, I will invite the neighborhood, the whole island to our house and share the food.

 I attempt to balance the 10 lb peanut butter pretzels on my cart already bulging with chocolate covered raisins and 5,000 snickers bars.  I know the people next to me are whispering about my apparent eating disorder or my inability to employ moderation in my choices.  But, when I see the shoppers sauntering like they are enjoying a sunny day along the Zattere with almost empty carts, I know the truth—they have multiple family members casing the place with their own carts.  Then I genuinely wonder how they’ve achieved this sort of equanimity; I decide there must be a special pre-Costco meditation practice that people learn over time.  I make a note to research this. 

I persevere until my breathing gets unsteady as I drown in the excess, my avarice, thoughts of the impending grocery bill.   I begin chanting “flour, rice, Madras lentils” to jog my now blank mind and push me to the finish line.  In fact, the truth is, the reason I joined Costco this time, after being dry for about 2 years, is because my finicky (read loves sugar like his mother) teenage son requested Madras lentils like the ones his grandmother bought at Costco.  In my tumult, I almost forgot.  As fate would have it, I pass a woman singing and handing tiny Dixie cups of said Madras lentils.  I taste them before putting 16 in my cart, and I race to check-out.

 I  feel judged by the cashier and his helper, like they are slightly irritated that one middle aged woman could possibly need this much.  He asks me if I will be needing boxes, and this is my moment to shine!  Puffing up my superior environmentally-conscious self, I proudly, and a little too loudly, announce “no, just put it ALL in the cart; I brought my own bags!”

I saunter out the door and look the receipt checker right in the eye, knowing she is impressed with my dearth of boxes.  It takes me 40 minutes to unload each item one by one into my car; I fight for space with kid-detritus: mismatched crocs, dirty dish towels, half-eaten apples.   In the safety of my car and the sunshine, relief descends in the same way it does after a 5 k race when I’m eating the bananas and granola bars at the finish line.  I pick up my kids and their friends from the nearby bowling alley (free Mondays for kids), drive home, and meditatively put 10-ply toilet paper in each bathroom while the kids build a Jinga tower out of Snicker bars.