Big Box Love

Do I need all this stuff right now? Is it really cheaper? Where will I put it? Don’t distract me, dammit, I’m shopping.

What’s that buzz I feel?

For the next six months I won’t even come close to running out of dishwashing liquid, laundry detergent, or those crappy, chewy, oversized capers. Who cares if the pound of dried porcini tastes a little more wooden than woodland, or if the olive oil is way more Wesson than extra-virgin? I won’t have to think about shopping again for a very, very long time.

Maybe that’s it. I’m not a shop-a-holic, I’m a binge shopper. Long dry spells pass as I hold the demon of Necessary Provisions at bay. When I finally succumb—man…don’t look, ‘cause it’s gonna be bad. The prospect of being overly well-provisioned for the foreseeable future, and thereby avoiding dozens of little shopping excursions, is irresistible.

It’s not the cheap prices that hook me, and certainly not the immediate need for such quantities. My hall closet was built for clothes, not canned goods. I must be getting off on the prospect of not having to even think about shopping until the next time I feel compelled to give in to my big-box habit. It’s not the economy of pricing that I’m responding to, it’s the economy of time and mental stress that draws me again and again to my big-box fix.

On my last big-box shopping bender though, I did see one very provocative sight. Perhaps gender unification is closer than we think. Not too far from the “lifetime-size” cans of chickpeas and the “never, ever again” multi-packs of mayo, there were…shoes. Rows and rows of shoes.