Off the grid: Costco as a test of compatibility

People are always saying you need to take a vacation with someone before you can really determine whether the relationship has any longevity. They are wrong.

Vacation is not real life. There are cocktails and probably someone turning your sheets before bed. Or you’re washing dishes that only have to be camp-clean anyway (not a good marker for real kitchen dishwashing detail) and there is a deliberate delegation of tasks.

No, dear readers, shopping at Costco is the relationship litmus test.

Unfortunately, I learned this after I married, and now we’re trying to navigate the awkward reality that we disagree on essential priorities. Charlie believes purchasing AAA batteries by the pound is prudent. I believe you can never have too much dental floss.

We made this crucial discovery some weeks ago when we decided to make a together-trip to the mecca of bulk buying of things-you-most-probably-don’t-need. Particularly the snack section. I’m wary of the antacid section, too, and find myself wandering around those shelves offering random advice to avoid chili dogs.

It began calmly enough when my husband went for a shopping cart only to return with an industrial-grade trolley, rated up to 4 tons and requiring a Class C driver’s license. I glanced up to notice a row of available shopping carts that were at least large enough to suffice as a condo for a transient couple.

“There are shopping carts over there,” I said.

“We need this much space,” he answered. Note: This answer was given in a curt, matter-of-fact tone. A tone that suggested perhaps there had been some internalized project planning happening the last 40 miles of driving.

It was the tone of someone on a mission. A Costco mission.

My only mission was to empty my bladder before I went on a coddiwomple through the sock section, tried to justify a 12-pack of toothbrush heads, and seriously considered a new couch because it was such a good deal. I don’t get out much. Costco trips are to me what a weekend trip to Seattle is for others.

“I’ll meet you right back here,” I said as I darted off for a no-nonsense bathroom break.

I bet I was gone less than 120 seconds because I’m a notoriously abbreviated hand-washer.

When I returned, husband and child were nowhere to be seen. I hurried past the electronics wondering if they’d been distracted by the unnecessary, glanced at the diamonds, did a cursory lap past the socks. No husband. I made it through the wine section, the vegetable cooler and past the meats. Mind you, that’s three-quarters of the store.

It wasn’t until the paper towel aisle that I spotted him in the distance. It was hard to confirm the sighting because he was moving so fast all I really saw was a blur of his Carhartts. Parents were yanking their children out of his way, geriatrics were fleeing on motorized carts, and my teenager was at a full-tilt run behind him.

His efficiency was magnificent. He would give the trolley a hard shove, then match its speed, drifting slightly to the right to lean out and scoop up 138 rolls of toilet paper that he gracefully transitioned to his other arm, setting it on the careening barge of boxes as they glided past the baby wipes.

By the time I caught up, out of breath, there was $800 worth of oat milk and paper goods stacked like a humanitarian relief package on our cart. By then, we had been in the store for at least 7 minutes.

Of the many things I love about my husband is his ability to change. When perceiving my look of horror, the perspiration dripping from our daughter’s face, and the panicking pedestrians clearing the row, the “Chariots of Fire” soundtrack stopped playing in his mind.

This is where I learned Charlie has two Costco gears: Race car driver and elephant rider. He folded his hands in front of him, hopped onto our Okie caravan wagon, and waited. For what, I’m not sure.

“Would you like to go down this aisle?” he asked sweetly. Alarm bells began ringing in my head. I tried to remember when our next marriage counseling appointment was. Some people go on dates, we just bring snacks to therapy. Four-pound bags of kettle corn.

Trying to find a middle ground, any time we identified a product we ought to purchase, Charlie would spring into action and we suddenly became the proud owners of 24 liters of bone broth and a college semester’s worth of ramen noodles. Our carriage of goods looked like one of those operations when an entire house is lifted off its foundation and awkwardly rolled down the middle of the main road. Only we needed flashing lights and an escort.

After the register was done printing our 40-foot receipt, Charlie chirped, “That was less than I thought it was going to be.”

He must have forgotten the batteries.

“Did you remember the kettle corn?” I asked.

He seemed confused by my concern as I wondered how I was going to Tetris all these things into our enormous car. Then I remembered how I had scoffed at him earlier when we left the house.

“I don’t know if we’re going to have room for everything,” he had said.

I had laughed with a naivety that is now innocence lost. It has been replaced with enough refried beans to survive the next pandemic.

Ammi Midstokke can be contacted at ammimarie@gmail.com.