The best day of my life occurred in the summer of 2019 at a PROPER NOUN BUSINESS in Greensboro, North Carolina. I should note up front that my hatred of Costco is about as deep as the vats of mayo sold inside the bland warehouse with a personality could be described as, well, mayonnaise. I should also note that I have two children, which rightfully raises the question: Why aren’t their births atop your list of best days? Because they’re not. But don’t worry, the kids are a part of this story.
I detest the big-box chain, which serves as a microcosm of America’s indulgence. It’s unnecessarily expansive and a Lord of-the-Flies hellscape, where social norms are suggestions. It’s also meant to provide convenience: You can get 12 gallons of contact lens solution along with 30 pairs of socks. But navigating the parking lot and then the store requires the athleticism of a champion dodgeballer. And your groceries are returned to you after checkout sans bags, so getting your contents from the trunk of your car to your house requires skilled acrobatics and juggling, as you try to keep the cantaloupe from slipping from under one arm while the other carries five precariously stacked boxes of granola bars and a 72-pound wheel of cheese. Honestly, the one thing missing from Costco’s decidedly American experience is a waiver guests must sign upon entry absolving the chain of any liability in the event of injury, maiming, or death in a shopping cart accident. (The carts are comically wide, but no one in the store seems to adjust for their size as they barrel down aisles littered with 48-packs of air filters and the entire back half of a cow ready to be grilled. This is not a safe place for humans, and I think I should add a Costco clause to my life insurance policy.)
My wife and I have two sons. Kai is now seven years old, and Kroy is five. We had enjoyed all the seminal “firsts” in the lives of our young children – steps, words, tantrums – but none could compare to – and forgive the crassness here, as this isn’t meant to be scatological – when Kai first pooped on the potty. After it happened, I looked him in his eyes and said, “This is the greatest day of my life.” But I was wrong. The greatest day would come a couple of years later at that Costco.
We had to make a return. My wife and I don’t recall the exact day, but we agree it was late June, so Kai was then four years old, but just a few weeks away from turning five. Kroy had recently turned three. Like a quartet of salmon, we began our swim upstream, entering the store through the exit to get to the return counter. We shimmied around departing two-and-a-half-foot wide carts, yanked the boys behind us to keep them from being trampled, and got in line to make our return.
We slid to the employee an unopened purple box of 3T-4T Huggies pull-up diapers with images of Marvel superheroes on the front. Inside were 116 diapers that Kai and Kroy would never use. The woman behind the counter scanned the box and then turned around to place it on a wire shelf behind her. She put $40 back on our credit card, and we merged into traffic toward the exit. My wife saw my smile as we headed toward the cart corral to secure one of those monstrosities, and she asked why I was so happy, noting that it was odd I’d show any emotion other than disdain at Costco. I told her it was because the boys were potty-trained. The diapers were gone. We were free from the constant flow of … well … you know. And I said to her, “What day will ever top this one?” She rebutted that line of thinking and mentioned our marriage and the boys’ birthdays, as well as far off events like graduations, marriages, grandchildren. It was all white noise to me, though, as I pushed forward into Costco, for once happy to load my cart with an amount of food we didn’t need and, perhaps, that four-foot-tall wine glass I could use later to celebrate.
