MARY KETTL

Perspective

I recently had an opportunity to visit both a Costco and a Sam's Club for the first time, which is unusual, since I normally regard any large store shopping experience with the same mixture of denial and dismay with which I approach a full-length mirror. I had expected these places to be big, but being in a store the size of Canada that carried both kayaks and ketchup just about did me in.

Costco and Sam's Club, you may know, are "membership" stores where you pay an annual fee and are issued a special card, which is like a library card and allows you to buy gum by the pound. These stores offer bulk items - say, salad dressing by the gallon - which is helpful if you have a football team living in your house. In exchange for the membership fee, some stores offer a small percentage discount on all purchases, which means if you agree to eat 100 frozen waffles, the store will give you two more.

I'm a reluctant shopper, even under the best circumstances. I hate to spend money and I have an almost pathological fear about acquiring too much stuff. I have moved nine times as an adult, which makes me cautious about every item I bring into my household. "What if I have to move?!" I fret silently. "Is this something I would take with me? Should I save the box?" These are just some of the thoughts I have while standing in the shoe aisle and weighing the necessity of a pair of sandals. I might pore over the pages of a catalogue admiring things I might like to use or wear, but the idea of actually going out in public, trading money for something, and then bringing it home makes me anxious.

So I was completely unprepared for my first megastore adventure with my Costco Card-carrying friends, Ryan and Edith. Entering the vast, hangar-like space of the Minneapolis Costco, I was startled by a row of flat-screen TVs, all projecting the same talk show at full volume. "How do you feel about that?!" Dr. Phil bellowed from a screen that made his face about the size of a garage door. To his left was a display of cheese wedges the size of dictionaries, and, further away, what appeared to be a cart full of fat, identically dressed quintuplets turned out to be several large bags of pancake mix. At that point, I began to itch, and I wanted to tell Dr. Phil that I felt dizzy.

Sensing my anxiety, Ryan tried to coach me. "The thing to remember is to have a list and only buy what's on your list," he explained.

"For example," Edith added, "do you really need that paint sprayer?" They waited while I carefully coiled up the hose of the paint sprayer and put it back on the shelf, and then we started walking through the store. Having a list, I noticed, did not keep Ryan and Edith from cruising slowly up and down each aisle, craning their necks to see what was for sale 12 feet above our heads, on shelves accessible only by Sherpas wearing "How May I Help You?" badges as they portaged six-packs of sledgehammers and other notions to the higher shelves.

As I squinted upward and thought about package failure and how we would later describe The Day It Rained Thousands of Buttons, I briefly felt like we were wandering through a store built for giants. Indeed, the parking lot was crowded with 40-foot motorhomes and camper trailers, and it was easy to imagine migrating bands of enormous people wandering the country, sustained on the journey by five-gallon pails of sunflower seeds and bushels of cheesepuffs. I wondered if they were as big as Dr. Phil.

It's funny how, when presented with a large array of items to choose from, old impulses take over. Since I was a little kid, I have always loved school supplies, especially a fresh set of markers, and as we strolled past layers of legal pads and quarts of glitter, I gazed longingly at the 72-pack of Sharpie markers. I probably didn't need them, since I no longer do that much coloring, but I wanted them all the same.

Ultimately I came home with a 4-pound bag of bell peppers, a 12-ounce container of whole black peppercorns with a built-in grinder, and a 38-piece platter of sushi. As I looked at these items on my kitchen counter, I wondered what they said about me. Sure, I had saved money, but was leftover sushi something I could make sandwiches out of? And since when had pepper-grinding become my new hobby? The bell peppers would be useful, but what kind of grabby impulse had made me think I needed that many?

A month later I went alone to a Sam's Club, this time carrying the card of the church camp where I work in the summer. Pushing the cart by myself, I flinched even more at the noise and size of that great hall, as if I had entered some bizarre state fair where hundreds of people each seemed to be carrying his or her entry into the judging for Biggest Box of Soda Crackers. Even knowing that I was shopping for Jesus was not enough to make me feel better, and I fled as soon as I could. It was all just too much.

Mary Kettl is a former junior high teacher from Gillette. She now lives in Minneapolis.