This is Friday Feels from Feeling Phine. The last post in this series can be found right here. Thanks for reading! Oh and to those who celebrate Lunar New Year, HAPPY YEAR OF THE TIGER! x
This week I made the ultimate sacrifice of love: I offered to accompany my mom to Costco.
Pre-pandemic, I’d define a trip to Costco as a leisurely delight. I loved to browse, observing what could be purchased in bulk for minimal unit price, checking which new products were in stock, and reveling in the variety of samples. Each aisle held a new promise of adventure. I loved Costco so much, I’d make it a point to squeeze in a trip any time I came back to visit from Singapore (a lovely, but Costco-less nation).
Nowadays, in the age of Covid, the pleasures of Costco have dissipated. Samples disappeared faster than one could say “social distancing.” Crowds increased. A sense of urgency descended upon the warehouses. Everyone needed supplies, but no one wanted to be out of the house for longer than necessary; the aisles transformed into a vicious, Mad-Max-like dystopia, filled with carts pushed by harried individuals.
I won’t go into detail regarding the now-limited Food Court offerings - to relive the full spectrum of heartbreak would be too much. All I will say is, since they retired the chopped onion and relish dispensers, the $1.50 hot dogs have never been the same. (They continued to offer ketchup and mustard in small, plastic cups. Why not the acidic accoutrements? Surely they fit into small cups too?!?)
When I repatriated to California summer of 2020, and witnessed my preferred Orange County Costco turn into an apocalyptic haunt, I felt a certain relief in hitting rock bottom; it couldn’t get any worse. Then this year I realized, it could. Enter: Costco, Los Angeles.
Thursday, the 3rd of February
3:35 PM: We enter the parking lot, which is unsurprisingly, yet disappointingly, full. Which sick and twisted city planner had the idea to put a gas station and an In-N-Out in the same parking lot as COSTCO?! No time to dwell, must find a spot.
3:45 PM: A spot has been secured after the departure of an orange sedan. Despite some interference in the form of a hip couple, refusing to remove their cart from the now-empty space whilst loading their backseat, I manage to park Maman’s Rav-4 without any scrapes or casualties.
3:48 PM: Having discussed and reviewed the shopping list, we exit the car and approach the gauntlet.
3:55 PM: Our strategy for survival was to stick to the edges; the longer, bordering aisles of the store are often the most empty. Maman pushes the cart. All is well until we hear wheels behind us. Another couple approaches, each rolling a cart. We move to the side, allowing space on the left for them to stagger and pass. The couple won’t break formation - they insist on remaining side by side, in full conversation, carts in tow. The wheel of the cart behind me is inches away from my heel. “They’re trying to kill us!” I whisper to Maman. I quickly grab the front of our cart and veer us towards the right, into the next open aisle. We are spared. I’ve gained an understanding of how Mufasa felt in those moments before the stampede led to his demise.
3:58 PM: A random 12-pack of colorful Sharpies has been added to the cart. Is Maman stress shopping? Perhaps.
4:02 PM: We must secure a block of Jarlsberg. The cheese aisle is rammed. Maman stands to the side with the cart as I enter the crowd solo. “Eating cheese feels better than drugs,” I remember Maman once saying, a handful of shredded parmesan in hand. The people of LA clearly need their fix. I navigate past chatty strangers, who are offering recommendations to one another; I pause to revel in this public offering of peace and friendship, then snap out of my eavesdropping. I must focus on the prize. Once the pound and a half block of Norwegian cheese is secured, I slip back through the crowd to the border where Maman and the cart await.
4:15 PM: The coffee creamer, green juice, cat food, cat litter, (human) toilet paper, chips, almonds, Zyrtec, and tampons have all been acquired. We make our way to the checkout line.
4:16 PM: I observe a random bag of cheddar Ruffles and a pound of hamburger meat lying abandoned near the frozen food aisle. A decision had been made. A moment of silence is observed for the displaced items.
4:18 PM: We approach the seemingly mile-long line. I realize I forgot razors. I run to grab them while Maman secures our space.
4:21 PM: I stare at the four bulk razor pack options. Why are women’s razors priced so much higher than men’s?
4:25 PM: Having silently fumed over sexist marketing strategies, and despaired over the likely horrid environmental impact of disposable razors, I take a moment to review the various prices per unit. I settle on men’s razors, which include a reusable handle. Then, I make my way to find Maman in the Hunger Games of grocery store lines.
4:34 PM: Several hundred dollars, and one last line later (Costco is not like the other girls! It’s the only store where you have to queue to exit!) we once again see the light of day. Mission accomplished.
As we walk to the car, I admit that my chest was tight with anxiety throughout the ordeal. Maman agrees. Her and I are bound together in many ways, the main factor being that I entered the world through her vaginal canal. Our connection is even more profound now. We are fused by our shared experience; we survived a trip to Marina Del Rey Costco.
Epilogue: We end the outing on a high note, walking to In’N’Out to enjoy a victory feast. Suddenly, the chaotic city planner’s decision makes perfect sense.
Singapore may be Costco-less but there's Carrefour in Bali to satisfy a bulk buying (ph)iend!
You described it so well! That's my Costco and I haven't set foot since Covid.