- April 19, 2024
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As I lathered coconut-scented shampoo over my arms and neck, having finally twisted and smooshed every last drop of body wash out of the empty-ish bottle I’ve been milking the past week, it hit me that this must be what rock bottom looks like.
It was time to stop procrastinating and go to the store.
I mean, it’s not even that I hate going shopping, exactly. It’s more that I hate going shopping for one thing. I go then feel obligated to fill a basket with other items I’d normally never consider, just so the trip doesn’t feel like a waste.
CASHIER: “Find everything OK today, sir?”
ME: “Well, let’s see: body wash, 10-pound ham, pair of roller skates, toy Army soldiers, Metamucil. ... Um, yeah. I’d say so, toots.”
It’s the idea of a wandering shop that turns me off. I like to make a list, zip in, zip out. But when I don’t know exactly why I’m there, I start feeling flustered. And I knew this particular trip had even more Fluster Potential than normal.
See, I got this Walmart gift card around Christmas. And I’m not a Walmart guy. It’s further from my house, bigger than Publix — the kind of place that triggers the Fight or Fluster impulse almost immediately as I walk through the robot doors.
To top it off, I knew that if I were going to use the entire card in one shot, this was going to be a big shop. So, needless to say, the card goes unused for about three months.
But let me tell you something: When body-shampooing happens, your priorities change quickly.
So, I grab the card and, even though it’s free money, I can’t get myself to spend it on something fun and frivolous. That’s just not me. Me is a guy who spends his weekend nights calculating just how many practical items, like lint brushes and toiletries, he can buy with $100.
“Just think: I won’t have to buy toothpaste out of my own pocket for 18 months!” I ecstatically tell strangers in the aisle. And I can see in their eyes they understand.
But I’m like this with everything.
“I know I haven’t taken you out to dinner in a while,” I tell Molly, who, poor girl, hasn’t been on a Signature Mike Cavaliere McDonald’s date in months. “But you’ve got to understand, the more I invest into my Roth IRA now, the more secure I’ll be down the line.”
Sure, there are a few tears, but after I explain the complexities of inflation and the national sequester, she understands. Then we get back to our Ramen Noodles.
Anyway. I’m at Walmart and it’s going great. Face wash? I’ll take three! Socks? Why not. Water filters? Absolutely!
And then I pass the movie bargain bin, and before I know it, I’m elbows-deep.
If you’ve never experienced it, the bargain bin has always been my favorite Walmart attraction. It’s like the store’s very own “Lord of the Flies” island, all chaos, no rules. All of the movies are piled in a mountain too big for the crate, so that every time you grab one, about 500 others avalanche. And if you’re looking through with strangers, forget about common courtesy.
After all, there may only be one $5 copy of “Ghost Dad” in that crate, so you do what you need to make sure you find it first. It’s every man, woman and child for themselves.
It’s not personal; it’s the bargain bin.
“Aw, fudge nuggets!” a tall southern girl next to me said, as her mountain avalanched. I shot her a wink, pulled a copy of “Beetlejuice” from her side of the bin then headed for the registers.
With a few more bucks to burn, I grabbed a bottle of hot sauce on the way out, then turned to Molly.
“Don’t think I forgot about you,” I told her, grabbing another, cheaper bottle off the shelf. “I’m buying this for you,” I explained, “and I won’t take no for an answer.”
“But I—“ she said, and I interrupted, putting a finger to her lips before she could finish.
“Shhh,” I said. “No thank yous necessary.”
I knew that if there’s anything girls like more than a thrifty, indecisive, socially anxious shopper, it’s fiery hot sauce. So I took her hand and headed for the doors, trailing pungent wafts of coconut and victory in my wake.
BY MIKE CAVALIERE | ASSOCIATE EDITOR
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