Has anyone been to Costco on a Saturday the end
of the month when all the local weathermen are predicting at least ten inches
of snow over the next 24 hours? No?
My
husband and I are usually diligent in planning ahead so we can get to the store
immediately upon opening or on a Monday towards closing. We sort of suspected
it would be crowded this trip, so we cautioned each other to stay calm and
breathe deeply.
As I enter the store, I am on
my third aoummmmmm, releasing the air with a soft, low hum. After flashing our
card to the cart monitor on duty, I almost run over two middle aged women who stop
mid aisle appreciating the cute little pajama sets that would make a perfect
birthday gift for little Elizabeth. Ohhhnnnooo,
I whisper as I screech my cart to a halt, deftly avoiding taking one of them
out.
Why are we surprised? It was after all lunchtime and everyone knows
that Costco serves food samples at multiple stations, strategically placed throughout
the store.
No
matter, I think. We have a relatively short list and can be in and out of here
in ten minutes. “You run and get the
chicken and the salmon,” I say, “and I’ll take care of the produce. Ooops, so
sorry,” to a Costco-size lady wheeling a
cart full of paper products and children. She comes close to running me over in order to get
to the “delicately fried cheese ravioli
with just a touch of corn relish” that is being devoured by lumber jacks, Summo
wrestlers, Bronco tight ends, cheer
leaders with orange pom poms as well as small children darting between the legs
of larger adults, running interference for their parents, standing guilty across
the aisle, hoping their brave little progeny will not be pinned, tackled, trampled, or
pummeled by the hungry hoards waiting in line.
As I finish my list, I am somehow trapped with
my back facing one of the food troughs and look into the face of a severely
determined woman eyeing ham and biscuit delectables on the stand behind me. I
try to catch her eye, but she is looking over my shoulder with her cart three
inches from my middle. “Please,” I beg. “Please let me by.” She glares at me, her beady eyes watching the
plate behind me slowly being emptied by everyone who is fortunate enough not to
have me between them and their food, and slides on past mumbling something that
I’m glad I don’t hear.
We breeze through checkout, expertly stacking
our goods on the belt, flipping out the Costco card once more and pay our bill.
In the parking lot, a car waits for our spot as we stuff the trunk, return the
cart to the caddy, click our seatbelts. When we pull out, there are at least seven
cars piled up behind him. Honking.
My
husband pats my knee as we head for the highway. “You okay?”
"Never
again,” I say. He smiles, knowing that
once I’ve removed my knee pads and body armor, things will return to normal.
Until next month.
