Over the course of this year, I have tried and signed up for many a new thing, all on the journey to become—what I refer to as—”a real adult grown up human person.”

Wifi bills. Accounting apps. Dental insurance.

And getting my own Costco card.

Oh yeah. I went out and dun’it. Got my photo taken and everything.

Stupid black-and-white photo on the back of that card makes me look like a smiling, psychopathic serial killer. But whatever.

For those of you in the UK who are currently lowering your tea cups and yelling “Mum! What in blazing heavens is a Costco? This lovely American girl is talking about Costco. Have you ever heard of such a thing? It’s driving me bonkers not knowing!”

Costco, friends, is a huge warehouse where you can buy mass product in bulk at wholesale prices. It’s every apocalyptic-hoarder’s dream.

At approximately, 5:13pm on doomsday, Costco will be filled with customers, storming the shelves and stacking box upon box of frozen Eggo waffles in their carts—excuse me—pallet jacks and shouting “out of my way! I see a sample lady!” whilst ramming said pallet jack into the heel of any shopper who didn’t heed their cry.

Actually, that’s a typical Thursday afternoon here in the US.

Costco’s catch?

You’re not allowed inside without a membership card. So I got one, though I never used it.

Until recently.

All I needed to buy was a rotisserie chicken. And salad. And bread. (There are always items your brain then adds-on to the list as you enter the store.)

ME: I’m only in here for a rotisserie chicken. That’ll make a great dinner.

BRAIN: Did you ever stop to think about side dishes, dummy? Don’t be selfish! Get bread, salad, drinks, appetizers! DO IT! DO IT NOWWW!

The rotisserie chicken is an excellent value at Costco. Five dollars? Can you beat that? I thought, I’m going to spend five dollars on a fantastic dinner that I didn’t even cook, everyone’s going to be happy and full, and I’ll be an excellent hostess on a budget!

Sixty-nine dollars.

I spent sixty-nine dollars.

Obviously, I needed a salad. That was only five dollars. I mean, come on. Ten dollars for a healthy dinner? Super budget friendly.

Then I needed bread. I had sour dough in my freezer at home but that wouldn’t do.

Rosemary parmesan. How fancy is that? It was seven dollars but it came with two loaves.

Ten paces into the store, I grabbed up a six pack of whitening toothpaste for ten dollars. That’s an excellent value and I use that toothpaste anyway, so I’d actually be saving money.

On my way out, I stopped by a separate bread isle. The rosemary parmesan was in the bakery side of Costco, at the back of the warehouse. Prepackaged bread is located on your way out.

Curse the evil genius who came up with this layout.

I found a TWO pack of sweet Hawaiian rolls, A.K.A. soft spongy heaven in your mouth, A.K.A. can’t just eat one. Six dollars. That’s crazy! One pack is like five at the grocery store.

This led me to a dilemma.

I now had two different breads in my cart. The rosemary parmesan and the Hawaiian rolls. The sensible side of me knew: the rosemary parmesan had to go. It was more expensive and everyone loves Hawaiian rolls.

Did this mean I had to walk to the back of the warehouse like an idiot? Weave my massive cart around the throngs like the cheapo that I am? Only to walk back this way?

No. That wasn’t an option. Instead, I was going to do the unthinkable, the borderline illegal in store-world.

I was going to discard the loaves in this isle, like a criminal dropping a body in the woods.

Except, I had a witness. A stalky bald man wearing his glasses on the back of his head—metaphorical eyes watching my corrupt behavior.

And he wouldn’t leave. He quietly strolled through the isle, tilting his head at one shelf, stepping back, and wandering to the shelf behind him.

I grew frustrated. Who was I to let this bald, indecisive, gluten-eater dictate whether or not I spend seven extra dollars?!

I turned and tossed the rosemary loaves on the shelf and it sat there, for half a second, amongst the dark-grained wheat bread, looking like the black sheep it was.

And within this half second, I filled with a new frustration—a fueled frustration—fueled by hunger, fatigue, and the justification that I had just worked eight hours at the office.

Why should I leave the rosemary loaves?

Do I not deserve the rosemary loaves? Will they not be delicious?

Why do I work as hard as I do? So that I can leave loaves of bread that will no-doubt bring everlasting fulfillment and joy into my life?

The bald man saw everything. The plastic bag that encased all bakery goods is made of this loud crunchy clear film, which doesn’t help covert missions. He saw me throw the loaves onto the shelf while in the same motion, I reached forward and scooped my bread-babies back up again, cradled them in my arms, and placed them gently back in my cart where they belonged.

I quickly got the heck out of there, head held high, because I felt no shame in what I had just done and that bald man was not going to make me feel shame!

I made it home with a chicken, a bag of salad, toothpaste, a giant box of gum (who doesn’t need gum?), a massive bag of tortilla chips (it was like three dollars, guys) and, of course, my sweet rolls and rosemary loaves.

A loot of goods!

To which, my boyfriend asked this simple question, “why did you buy so much bread?”

I realized the error of my ways. I felt heavy with shopper’s remorse. I quickly sold one of my rosemary loaves to my mother. And ate a package of sweet rolls like the fatty that I am, and also, to rid of the evidence.

Sixty-nine dollars.

I am not allowed to go to Costco ever again.

Can’t get enough? Watch me tell the story on my YouTube channel! Click below.

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