Riding (Costco) Shopping Carts is NOT for the Faint of Heart

I hate Costco. I really do. I hate going there, I hate walking around with a shopping cart the size of a Buick, I hate waiting patiently behind people who have to consider everything they walk past because their lives demand lots of things in bulk. I mean really, don’t people go to or join Costco for something in particular? For instance, Jonathan and I finally broke down and got a Costco membership so we could buy dog food. Our house is a zoo and we go through dog food like a sorority house goes through toilet paper and tampons (which we also buy at Costco. Toilet paper, not tampons. I do not need that many tampons). I really hate buying toilet paper at the grocery store. I mean, it’s bulky and annoying to carry. It never fits in my basket, never mind a grocery bag. I’m angry just thinking about it. Either way, I go there, I buy dog food, and possibly toilet paper, and I get out. The end. Well except for today. That wasn’t the end.

Sometimes you have to spice things up a bit, you know? I really hate running errands, and I especially hate running errands on my day off, because I want my day off to be just that, a day off of the things I have to do every other day. (Man I’m using “hate” a lot in this blog. I apologize if you’re having a fairly positive day and have to read through all my negativity and bitterness). So as I’m leaving Costco, and crossing the parking lot/football field to my car, I realize I have a pretty straight shot to my car and the parking lot has a slight slope to it. Hmmm. My cart has already begun picking up a little bit of speed, and I think, Why not? This could be fun. I now know to bail anytime I have that thought. This is called learning a lesson, people.

So I do a little jog to get the cart REALLY going—and I know you all know how to do this maneuver. You start jogging a little bit and then you do a fancy little skip, leap onto the cart, lean slightly forward, and smile like a dog with its head out the window of a moving car, squinty eyes and flapping tongue included.  While riding shopping carts can be pretty fun, we all know that the fun is usually ephemeral and over-rated: the cart never stays moving for long, your car isn’t that far away and the ride stops as fast as it started, and you never go as fast as you—okay, while I would normally say “you never go as fast as you want to,” that was not the case today. If there was one thing I learned today, it was that a gargantuan shopping cart with the wheels of a go-cart, holding 2 Costco-sized bags of dog food, moving in a downward sloped parking lot with an average sized person on the back, means the shopping cart is going to move WAY FASTER THAN YOU EVER COULD HAVE IMAGINED. And you’re going to be scared. SOOOO scared.

When I started to realize that I was picking up speed, I got a little nauseated, and held on tighter, hoping that no car in the near 15 feet was going to decide to back up. Let’s be honest, they wouldn’t notice me until it was too late. And boom. Hilarious obituary + moral lesson for children everywhere. So I hold on and focus on my destination; I’m in field goal range, but I decided to go for 2 and now I have to commit. Any hesitation will get me killed. Or I’ll just ding someone else’s car as I jump off the moving cart, which would be totally embarrassing. Yes, that’s what I found embarrassing about this whole situation.

Everything would have been fine had it not been for this damn woman who sideswiped with me her disapproving expression (see what I did there? You thought I was going to get hit by a car. But I didn’t. Worse. I got mean-mugged). A woman standing by her car, probably waiting for the out-of-control shopping cart to hurtle pass her, put her hand on her hip as I neared, and as I passed by her in a blazing half-second, I heard that one little word. “Really?” And I’m sure you can imagine the tone of that snarky rhetorical question and everything that it implies. Here is a list of definitions of the utterance, “really?”:

A) You’re an idiot

B) Are you really that idiotic? Is that even possible?

C) How old are you?

D) And where are your parents?

Can’t forget E) Oh, you’re not here with your parents because you’re 25 years old?

And F) You’re “really” 25 years old?

G) Do I even need to say “really?”

And the list goes on and on. While I did not have time to reply, and also because I understand the concept of rhetorical questions, I did manage to shoot off a goofy, guilty-as-charged smile that probably said something along the lines of “You’re right. I’m sorry. I’m incredibly immature. But DO YOU SEE HOW FAST I’M GOING? WHO WOULD HAVE GUESSED?!”

 In case you’re having a hard time imagining this particular sequence of facial expressions, it goes like this: 

While this encounter was brief, and I made it to my car without getting run over, I still went home feeling sheepish and confused about how I actually pay rent. Or manage to bathe myself—okay I don’t do that on the most consistent basis, but it definitely happens sometimes. The worst part about the whole thing, is that this was not the first time something like this happened. I know, I know. My sophomore year of college, I was definitely scolded by an older woman in the parking lot of a grocery store for riding a grocery cart. But instead of “really?” it was “get down! You’re going to get hurt!” And while I was humiliated, I listened to her. I got off the cart and knew that she was right. I was going to get hurt; thank you older woman for looking out for radical infants like myself. So what’s the lesson here? While I would like it to be that people should mind their own damn business so I can ride my shopping cart in peace, I think it actually means that some people (like both of these wise ladies I have had the privilege of knowing very briefly) grow into actual adults who make sound decisions and recognize danger, and I continue to make the same decisions over and over again, and never learn. Isn’t that the definition of insanity? I think it is.

So I guess what I’m trying to say is, I’m sorry, Mom.