I needed some stuff yesterday, so I went to Costco.
I stood in line under the bright lights, behind someone buying a dump truck full of toilet paper and next to another someone loading a 70-pound box of Cheez-Its onto the conveyor.
And I thought, there is nowhere on earth less sexy than Costco.
Not that I'm particularly focused on my allure while running errands, but the 100-count boxes of tampons along with beeping forklifts and screaming toddlers just kills any momentary flicker of cool I might be lucky enough to experience while roaming the towering, shrink-wrapped aisles.
Oh, sure. Costco carries roses and cashmere and wine. But you have to load it into a cart the size of a tank. Along with your crock of Beano and magnum of fish oil.
And then there's the Costco "restaurant". A candle-lit bistro with a single gerbera daisy on each table it is not. Here you have your hard plastic benches and your massive slabs of dripping cheese pizza and your churros that are as long as...well, they're long.
Costco simultaneously grosses me out and lures me into into its echoey, merchandise-packed bowels. Whenever I'm there I can't help wishing I were, instead, strolling from small, aesthetically-pleasing shop to small, aesthetically-pleasing shop with my baguette, flowers and merlot slung over my shoulder in a canvas bag.
We're Americans, though. So we make our Costco runs and buy our cantaloupe-sized poppyseed muffins and then have to get our clothes at Costco too because they sell plenty of (only) pants with waists whose measurements are double the inseams.
And if we're having a day when we feel remotely sexy, just the slightest bit fetching, and we come out to our car, among acres of other cars, where a crow has taken a giant crap on the back, right window... we are, once again, humbled.