I am a big fan of Costco (it peaks in middle age, I am told) and would find it very pleasant and relaxing to be locked inside a Costco. Then, after being given a credit card that isn’t maxed out, (for a change), I am then instructed to spend like all get out. My soon-to-be Kirkland brand denim-clad legs would propel me to certain areas of the store, electronics, frozen foods, and produce. Mindful of my love of sodium and MSG, I would entice the sample ladies to make me up a plate to go.
I recently overheard a delightful and charmingly daffy lady at Costco exclaim, ‘Who knew there were that many types of nuts!’ Was she suggesting that perhaps Costco was just making UP nuts to increase profits? Is a brazil nut even FROM Brazil? Macadamia? Definitely a made-up word there. Like ‘nuance’.
Fake nuts. (that’s the other thing Trump hates)
At times, while inside Costco, I amuse myself by pretending that I am fabulously rich, and can just buy ANYTHING I want in the store. WITHOUT checking the price and mentally calculating the tax, and whether having two kayaks is extravagant. At other times, I feel that I do not belong there – that I am a fraud amongst these healthy pigeons . . . . er consumers. I start to hang my head in such a dejected manner that customers assume that I am staff.
Since I am part of the club that accepts me as a member, I seriously consider the merit of the club itself. However, there is no joy to be had shopping at the Mom and Pop store, or 7-11. There, one might find oneself on HD television and occasionally followed around the store. I embrace my inclusion in this (must be sentient to enter) club, as I manhandle a haystack-size cube of toilet paper up the stairs, and have fond remembrances of past bowel movements.
Fade in. Sound of an exhaust fan. Slow push to a potpourri dish. Swing pan to nicely folded toilet tissue, as they do in nice hotels and cruise ships. Viens, Mallika on repeat in the background.