My husband and I were once brought to the brink of divorce at Costco when he lost me in the crowds, had a temper tantrum, and left. He spent what he claims were hours waiting for me in the hot sun in the parking lot because I had the car keys. It’s not my fault he was too stubborn to wait for me in air-conditioned comfort inside the store with a soft drink and hot dog at the luxurious snack bar. Because of that close encounter, I never take him with me anymore unless it’s for his annual hearing aid checkup. Also, husbands tend to throw all kinds of junk food into the cart, which adds considerably to your checkout bill. Has anyone ever checked out for less than $300.00?

That monthly visit to my local Costco is a necessary evil, something I dread. After driving around endlessly searching for a parking spot in their overcrowded parking lot, I’m already getting into fighting mode. It’s like trying to find a spot at the mall the week before Christmas. You drive around and around looking for someone ready to leave—then pounce, feeling overjoyed when you finally score a spot miles beyond the propane tank enclosure. If they’ve been doing their job, the staff will have a cart ready for me inside the door. Otherwise, I have to wait for a grumpy attendant to heave a row of locked-together carts at a waiting throng of cranky shoppers.

Upon entering, I adjust my hip holster, square my hands on the cart, and steel myself for the crush of shoppers, sometimes three entire generations of one family, all anxious to block my path and obstruct my access to the cheese section. The aisles are wide, but not wide enough that I’m not constantly waiting for the imaginary lights to change so I can ease myself into the off-lane for the next counter or aisle. I stand on tiptoes to reach over the lady with two very large squabbling toddlers in her cart to reach my bag of oranges from a skid of produce as tall as me. Skirting around the crowds gathering at the free sample carts, I manoeuvre into a new area of the store and breathe a sigh of relief that I survived the bakery section with only four unplanned purchases.

As part of their brilliant but greedy marketing strategy, Costco does not label the various aisles with helpful guide words like “Baking supplies, Soups and Canned Goods, Soft Drinks, or “Guy Things“—the aisle with duct tape, work gloves, and motor oil. We have to scour every aisle to find what we’re looking for, which inevitably leads to a lot of stupid impulse purchases. Did I really need that gallon jar of pimento olives? It’s so easy to get sucked into purchasing items in bulk that I have no hope of using up before I die. Every aisle requires that I dodge oversized carts and navigate wandering husbands and children who are probably just as anxious as I am to escape this hell.

I push through the meat section, avoiding the mammoth packages of pork chops or cylindrical rolls of minced beef the size of Reacher’s leg. The stuffed peppers leap into my cart because they’re a handy, quick meal with a salad on the side, but I avoid the actual salads because they’re washed in a bleach solution that I can taste. I know that after watching YouTube videos about how they inject their rotisserie chickens through tiny needles with chemical-laden, saltwater solutions, I shouldn’t buy them, but how can I resist? They’re so cheap and easy, and it gets me out of cooking supper.

Despite the accompanying stress and my health-conscious objections to much of Costco’s fare, when they get it right, they get it right. I’m a huge fan of their Kirkland tissues, their cheap toilet paper (although I prefer Charmin’ Soft to their house brand), and giant packages of paper towels. Of course, these items are always located in the far back corner of the building, so I’m forced to traverse every single aisle to get there. The cases of iced tea I buy for hubby are so huge and heavy I have to carefully leverage one end up and tip them into my cart where they land with a loud thunk. Their fresh-water, frozen wild Alaskan sockeye salmon filets are the best, and I can’t leave without a bag of salted cashews and pistachio nuts. It’s risky venturing down the personal care aisles, but I do find their vitamins and other items to be well-priced, so I load up in vain hope of not having to return to the store for weeks, preferably months.

Do we all love to hate Costco, or is it just me? I’ve tried going at different times of the day to minimize the stress. Never go on a weekend. Mid-afternoon on a weekday after the lunch crowd has departed seems to work best for me. Being retired, I have that luxury. I never venture there in the early morning because I’m not engineered for early mornings. I also avoid evenings because an old lady, I don’t like to drive after dark. If you’re a boomer like me, you’ll understand. I suggest never taking your husband, or you’ll find unwanted giant bags of potato chips, Cheez-Its, ice cream bars, and mac ‘n cheese buried in your cart at checkout.

I could probably exist very easily, and possibly be happier without Costco in my life. The thing is, I cannot resist renewing that pricey Executive membership every year. I’m a sucker for punishment. I consider it a really lucky day when an employee with a handheld machine checks me out before I reach the actual cashier. The sooner I get out of there, the happier I am, especially after that gassy $1.50 hot dog-and-drink deal. If you need extra body wash, some foil lasagne pans, stuffed olives, or Q-Tips from my lifetime supply, DM me. My super-sized cup runneth over.