Why would I, a single person, join a giant membership warehouse store that sells everything from French fries to toilet paper in tribe-size plastic bags?
Maybe because I’m addicted to bargains and the coffee they sell. But mostly because with the kids grown, it’s the new way to complicate my life. Nothing like wrestling 22 servings of organic broccoli florets into the freezer. Nothing like trying to eat them all before they expire some Thursday.
It all started innocently enough, with a pumpkin cheesecake at my book group.
“Where did you get this?” everyone gasped. “It is so amazing.”
To which the hostess, also single, replied with the name of her favorite members-only store.
There was no shame in the response. Gone is the trendiness of the favorite family recipe. Who has time?
Instead, the question was “What aisle?” Followed by a riveting recitation of things available on neighboring aisles: milk chocolate enrobed cashew clusters and frozen spinach and mozzarella ravioli to serve 16.
In the mouth-watering moments that followed, three questions did not come to mind: (1) How could I eat all that? (2) Where could I store it? And (3) Is it worth the cost of admission?
Rather, the instinct to join was instant. Quickly followed by the instinct to justify the decision.
It hardly mattered that I left my three pivotal questions unuttered. Members of the store – whatever the store – are cultish fanatics, who skip over the obvious questions of quantity and price, and head straight for the visuals. Giant strawberries. Giant TV screens.
“You won’t regret it,” my son enthused. “I got a great package deal to Maui and they have awesome guarantees.”
Thankfully, none of my kids mentioned funeral arrangements, but a quick trip to one store’s site revealed a heck of a deal on something called a “Mother Casket.”
At book group, the holidays have brought the membership spiel to a fever pitch.
“You should just join for the free samples,” said one member, also single, who described weekend trips to her store as a “cocktail party without the liquor.” Just in case the samples were lacking, she recommended the $1.50 hotdog lunch.
“Have you tried the lox?” one said, followed by an elaborate description of packaging, price and location.
“Be sure and get the chicken salad,” another recommended.
“And the spanakopita is divine.”
If anyone mentioned the per-square cost of toilet paper (or the book), I did not hear it. But I felt an odd longing not to be left out.
Hoping for a more rational discussion, I turned to Google, where I found I was not alone. Chat rooms were buzzing with single people trying to complicate their lives with large-quantity buying. They were whiling away whole afternoons debating the pros and cons.
Single boomers who once formed babysitting coops were now proposing purchasing coops. They were acquiring more freezer space and pureeing excess broccoli into soup. One single woman had put up a blog devoted to displaying her best big-box buys. I noticed the postings were spare.
Undeterred, I finally joined. Not so much for the imagined savings but for the challenge of it all. Anyone can zap dinner for one. But a tribe-sized bag of spinach and mozzarella ravioli? Now that takes a warrior.
Copyright 2012 Pat Snyder
One Response
We joined a big box, card-carrying members only store when it was first built in Anchorage. What a hoot! We actually thought we were saving a lot of money until we had to buy the storage bins and shelving for the garage. I mean there were two of us plus assorted canine and feline family members of distinction. Then along came the Executive level of membership. I always wanted to be considered an executive. Well, not actually. What I wanted was an executive level income without the hassle of having to make executive level decisions. That rise to big box, card-carrying membership, Executive level, lasted less than a year when we didn’t recoup our initial investment for membership with the cash back. Now we are satisfied with our once per month visits about thirty minutes away. Let’s see. That’s an hour of travel at an average speed of 50 miles per hour. Fifty miles at fifteen miles per gallon of diesel fuel is 3.33 gallons of diesel. 3.33 gallons of diesel at $3.89 per gallon is $12.96 cents. That’s around $155 per year plus the trash bill to carry away the excess broccoli florets …