I didn’t start shopping a Costco until about 11 months ago and even then, it was largely motivated by the fact that I was living in Oregon, where the job market was about as reliable as Nicolas Cage starring in a movie worth more than the hair product he uses to convince everyone that he’s not balding. Shopping at Costco – being a Costco-ite – fomented this irrational fear in me. I knew that Wal-Mart was hell on earth, so anything bigger had to be like living in the laundry bin where Richard Simmons deposits his workout shorts and leotards. Luckily, I was only partially right.
For those of you who cut your toenails on a semi-regular basis and therefore are not completely familiar with this bargain mecca, Costco is a giant barn-like structure selling everything from $11 Men’s leisure vests to $5 pies that eclipse the size of most hot tubs. Basically, if you are planning or thinking about planning some sort of carnival, Costco can provide the sub-standard cotton candy maker, food service wax paper, 64 pack of hot dogs and, depending on the day, some guy who will at least tell you that he can paint faces. The subject matter will probably lean more toward poorly done Harvey Pekar-esque doodles instead of glitter butterflies but a bargain is a bargain.
Despite their hygienic shortcomings, people who shop at Costco are kind of brilliant. And I don’t say that because I shop there. Because while I do have the hygiene thing down to a science, I am hopeless when it comes to putting things in my basket that I’ll actually eat. The only way I even know whether or not I need to go to Costco again is when all of the stuff I failed to eat from the previous trip has expired. It’s like,”Oh, that ream of deli meat is starting to get slimy, better go get a new one so the 10lb bag of potatoes doesn’t get lonely.”
So yeah I’ve been tricked by the 3lb packs of heart-shaped ravioli (twice) and 126 count boxes of instant oatmeal. But a few months ago, I hit on something incredible. My boyfriend and I were nearing the end of our monthly return to play the part of fiscally responsible but clearly snack obsessed couple and, among all of the candy in the food slip ‘n slide (or aisle for those of you content with buying only one gallon of mayonnaise at a time), he spots a jug of 220 Fiber Choice pills for something like $16.
He then says, “This is a much better deal than buying them in smaller quantities at the drug store for nearly the same price.” At this point I start to suspect that he doesn’t really get why we shop at Costco and maybe just likes the variety implied in being able to buy an entire glazed ham and its own fitted captain’s outfit, including hat, all for under $30.
He starts going on about being irregular and I stop listening, wishing that I could go flip through the poster-sized slabs of cheese instead. But then, while realizing the scheme that Costco puts on by packing the front of the store (or rather, city-state) with food that will have your body storing shit as if you need it to survive the winter, I start thinking that it might not be a bad idea to haul this intestine insurance into the cart.
I resisted them at first, armed with the arrogance that I got plenty of fiber from my diet of butter and ice cream. They sat untouched on top of the fridge for about two weeks before I took the plunge, thinking that they so closely resembled candy that I had to be able to trust them. It’s probably the best decision I’ve ever made for the future of my rectum. I did, however, make the mistake of eating something like five in one sitting because they are just that good. The suggested dose is two pills for adults while not exceeding six in a day. To me that says, “Have seven.” But unless you want your abdomen to rumble like the concession stand floor during a Twilight premiere, don’t do this.
Try not to do it twice, anyway.
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