To Costco with Love

My June review of the store, the club, the experience.

It’s a whole vibe. A powerful warehouse among tiny strip malls. A members-only club where you can walk out with diapers, rotisserie chicken, and a new Christmas tree. Go ahead, sign up for a phone line after you sample some orange chicken. Pick up a prescription while your car gets new tires. Throw a two-pound package of grapes into your cart next to a 12-pack of Kleenex.

Fuck, I love me some Costco.

From the moment I flash my membership card and then roll my bigass cart through that open garage door, I’m rejuvenated. Who knows what you’ll find in the racks just inside the entrance: Shampoo? Pistachios? Jeggings? The (insert your choice of alcohol here) Advent calendar? It’s always a surprise!

But the surprises don’t stop at the entrance, friends. As you stroll, you’ll find products in bulk quantities you never knew could exist. The mums are always bigger at Costco. The circumference of the pumpkin pie could rival that of a Dodge Ram tire. We don’t need 24 packs of gum, but isn’t it good to have them around? My sister-in-law once stayed at our house and asked if we had any ibuprofen. “Sure,” I said, and tossed her our Kirkland brand pills. “500 pills?” she laughed in disbelief. “Why do you need 500 pills?”

This inexplicable demand for excess means legions of loyal shoppers. No matter the day of the week, the time of the year, the crowds descend upon a Costco entrance ten minutes before they open. You’d think every day was the pre-sale for the newest Playstation or Taylor Swift tickets, but no, every single day, crowds hover around the entrance at 9:55, with their red cart chariot ready to charge, aspiring to be the first to lay claim to that day’s Costco inventory.

Starting your morning in a near-empty, fresh-start Costco means a clean slate to your own day: grab your essentials, but also stroll through the frozen foods and the clothes tables and the pool toys without feeling too much like a sardine packed in a can. Because once we get to about 10:15, Costco can feel like the population of a small town is simultaneously competing in Supermarket Sweep. And may God have mercy on your soul if you need to run in on a Saturday afternoon for laundry detergent.

While drone footage of a Costco may look like the Dan Ryan during rush hour, the lines move. The cashiers are efficient. The customers all understand the shared mission: move with purpose, buy in bulk, and go on your way. And any tension from clanging carts with others washes away when I turn a corner and find someone offering me a mini slice of gouda. Or a tiny cup of popcorn. Or corn salsa on a tortilla chip. No need for lunch at home; you can construct a nutritional meal from the gloves of kind folks working the sample carts at Costco.

The beauty of this store, the aesthetic that sets it apart from the rest? Costco simply doesn’t care. Costco does its thing. It adds and pulls items from shelves as it wishes because it knows its aisles will always be packed. Costco doesn’t give a shit. Costco is like the girl who knows she can have any person she’d like; she’s too cool to care if you shop here or not. “You want to go to Walmart instead? Whatever,” says Costco. “My checkout lanes are full anyway. You do you, boo.”

And let’s not forget their food court’s bold defiance of normal economic patterns. For years, decades even, the classic hot dog and drink combo has been a slick $1.50. You read that right: After you finish your Costco trip, celebrate on a blue picnic table with a hot dog and drink for six quarters. Unreal.

When I get time alone, one of my favorite excursions is a solo trip to the warehouse. I know it’s counterintuitive, but the chaos of Costco is oddly calming. It’s an escape, a massive room that dwarfs you. Why do I feel the same sense of peace in a bulk-sized Costco as I do in a Main St. boutique shop?

Okay, maybe I’ve been indoctrinated by a capitalistic society that gets an endorphin boost at the mere thought of a cash register printing a receipt of all the items just purchased at a bargain.

I think, though, for a parent especially, there’s also joy in Costco’s combining of order and unpredictability. I really do not know what I’ll find each time I visit. Sure, there are some old reliables: Kirkland toilet paper. Five-dollar chicken. These two-packs of frozen quiche that my children DEVOUR. But, beyond the staples, aisle upon aisle feels like a new adventure. Are those Squishmallow ornaments? Star Wars Pyrex? Cinnamon cranberry goat cheese? Oh, they moved the Skinny Pop to the front of the store? Exciting! Every product has a place, every display has a sense of order, but every day feels like the Costco Elf on the Shelf rearranged and switched out products overnight and left us with a fresh new world of Costco adventures. I don’t know what I’ll find, but I also know exactly what to expect.

Compare that with the predictable chaos of motherhood, and I can see why so many parents are drawn to the allure of a Costco, the rush of wind as you walk through those open red garage doors. Costco affirms the state of dissonance I live in as a mother, and its perfectly random stock makes me smile.

I still don’t know exactly what they’re looking for when they review my receipt on the way out into the miles of parking lot, but my “Thank you!” is always genuine.

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