I hate shopping. I hate the mental gymnastics of figuring out how much I have in checking (this would be less problematic, I realize, if I were more responsible with money, but here we are). I hate trying on clothes in the harsh lighting of the tiny fitting room, which is perhaps why I’ve been wearing essentially the same three outfits for literally years (my wardrobe can be recombined in endless permutations, and by endless, I mean maybe like five). I really hate grocery shopping, because I resent that I should have to spend money on something so boring and basic, and also because I despise cooking, so it’s like salt in the wound. Shopping is the worst. Continue reading “In the land of giants”
I am starry-eyed over the notion of buying in bulk; I can’t wait to get those peanut butter-filled pretzels home to weigh and repackage them. It’s my commitment to calorie density that led me to this startling revelation: I love Costco. I don’t want to love it; I am filled with existential dread at the thought that I’m just like everyone else, pushing my giant shopping cart (or, for a really big trip, a pallet—eek!) up and down the aisles of this monument to excess.