"Pay no attention to the the In-N-Out to your right", said my brain to the rest of me. "Nor should you crave the free peanuts and infinitely customizable burgers at the Five Guys Burgers and Fries on your left."
I fought the urge. I don't know why, or even how, but I fought the urge to eat at those joints-- even though I'm addicted to burgers and everything peanut butter related.
The wheels kept turning. I found a parking spot in front of Costco, but not the closest one possible because I really don't mind walking an extra ten steps if it means not waiting an extra ten minutes. The people who try and get as close as possible are horrible and need to change their New Year's resolutions.
In case you've never been, Costco's entrance alone is a grand spectacle. The warehouse looks like something out of a science fiction flick, where the local denizens collect their goods from a central facility that provides them with sweet food products to be ingested that night, as well as new computers, tennis racquets, and if they're running low, affordable socks.
There is always someone guarding the entrance to ensure the folks pouring in are paying members of the club. It's like an underground society where only those wise enough to pay the initial $55 are welcomed with open arms to the secrets of the cult (or just a country club minus the access to a golf course).
The people around and in front of me were exposing their membership cards to the guard. Except she wasn't a guard in the classical sense. She didn't carry a gun or a badge. She simply verified everyone's eligibility to enter. I did the same thing working events at Disneyland, only we verified colored wristbands.
She didn't seem to notice me, so as if in a way to turn my self in, or maybe to justify my over thought out goal, I proclaimed "I'm just here for alcohol", which is probably the worst thing I've ever said.
"Okay", she replied nonchalantly.
I made my way down the gigantic aisles on my quest for a golden bottle of whiskey (or usquebaugh, as it's called in the Scottish and Irish islands). I snagged a bottle off the shelf and paraded toward the cashiers, knowing full well that the only way I could have looked less like an alcoholic was to carry a bottle in each hand.
Party planners buy in bulk.
On my way to the front, every unshaven, balding guy said this to me: "Enjoy it!" with a smile that suggested they were geniuses for thinking those words. Even in the parking lot, the dude leaving his car couldn't wait to say it, too. "Enjoy it!", he exclaimed as I walked by, which I think says something about our culture. Alcohol seems to have this mysterious, whimsical personality that excites people. It's like an acceptable taboo, a magical juice that brings out everyone's true colors, while conveniently making them sleepy.
But really, it's just overpriced melatonin.
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