Radical Consumerism: I Didn’t Choose the Karen Life, the Karen Life Chose Me

I recently left a job after only seven months. It was an easy decision because they weren’t paying me very much. In fact, they were paying me as little as they could possibly get away with- which means that I’d agreed to accept the absolute minimum amount of compensation to do the job. I didn’t think of it that way when I was hired, but that’s what it boiled down to:

“How little money would you accept to do this work?”

“I will accept this little amount.”

“Wow! That’s a very little amount indeed! Welcome aboard!”

The obvious danger in this arrangement, of course, is that the organization might also get the minimum amount of work in return for their low compensation. That’s not how I roll, though. I have this antiquated and unrewarded belief that if I agree to do a job, I do it to the best of my ability. So they definitely got their money’s worth out of me. I accomplished more in seven months in that role than most of my predecessors had during all their tenures put together.

But they couldn’t keep me.

As the issues with this fundamentally broken organization started to pile up, I began doing the math. And it was a simple equation- I don’t get paid enough for this bullshit.

So I left without a backward glance.

Which is why I was at a Costco on a rainy evening after a long day of running errands. Now that I wasn’t contributing to our household finances, there was no reason to outsource the tasks that I previously had when working. No more grocery delivery services, no more eating out instead of cooking, no more dog sitters or bi-weekly pedicures. Sacrifices would have to be made in exchange for not having to deal with a crappy job.

And a sacrifice is indeed what it is. Because I detest going to my local Costco. It’s perpetually crammed full of people, the lines are too long, the parking lot is always so full that it’s a total-body cardio workout just to get to the entrance (even the airport offers a shuttle bus, for crying out loud), and the employees are rude and disassociated.

But it wasn’t always that way.

I’ve been a Costco “club member” for ten years, and it used to be really fun to go there. The store was clean and shiny, the aisles were overflowing with abundant and special  “member’s only” bargains, and the Greeters were friendly and actually seemed happy to be there.

Yes, children, you heard me right. Gather ‘round and let me tell you more about the Good Ole Days.

Back when I stayed home to raise our three kids, I looked forward to my monthly Costco run with the same anticipation as Date Night with my husband. I carefully curated my shopping list and when the big day arrived I would put on a “cute” errand outfit and do something with my hair other than scraping it back into a haphazard ponytail.

And Costco didn’t disappoint. Walking in the door was like entering Oz- a riot of colors and smells and food and housewares and open cash register lanes- all presided over by smiling employees who checked your card and welcomed you (yes, you heard that right- they actually welcomed you) with, if not genuine warmth, at least a fairly passable imitation of it. I finished each trip with a visit to the food court, where I would savor my secret lunch- both a hot dog and a slice of pizza (oooh, so naughty!) and it was exhilarating and affirming and I cheerfully spent the equivalent of a mortgage payment every month.

Those experiences bought my loyalty for a decade.

Cut to today’s Costco: after I’ve navigated the stadium-sized lot and made it to the entrance, I have to dig out my phone so that I can wait in line to scan a barcode at a machine manned by a dead-eyed automaton wearing a skin suit who is staring off into the middle distance and repeating over and over again, in a monotone voice bereft of any life, joy or even hope, “Welcome to Costco. Please hold the barcode under the light and wait for the beep. Welcome to Costco. Please hold the barcode under the light and wait for the beep. Welcome to Costco. Please hold the barcode under the light and wait for the beep.”

As a mother and a fellow human being, I’m concerned. How long does this poor person have to stand there? Do they have water? Are they wearing supportive shoes? Did their hands always tremble like that, or is it because the bare concrete floor is sucking their life force from them? I want to reach out, to offer help in some way, but I can’t afford to. Like a soldier on a battlefield, I have a mission to accomplish and I’m going to need all my strength to get through it. Because by the time I’ve hiked my way through the store and been shoved by uncaring shoppers, ignored by more dead-eyed employees, searched in vain for the cheese my husband likes and finally crawled my way up to the registers (only two of which are manned by actual employees) where I will then be yelled at to form a line, produce my card, and keep it moving, I’ll be on my last legs.

I won’t be exhilarated. I won’t be satisfied. Instead (after standing in line to leave the store, waiting to be barked at to produce my receipt and staring hungrily at the daylight spilling in through the open door), I’ll be exhausted, grumpy, and deflated, flinching like a dog whose been beaten too frequently and schlepping my way back through Parking Lot Purgatory.

What happened to shopping? When did everything go wrong? It’s easy to blame Covid, but I think this consumer death spiral has been going on for awhile. People have been accepting far too little money to work while paying far too much for goods and services, and now we’re somehow in an abusive relationship with major corporations. From restaurants to retailers, they keep lowering the bar on the levels of service, quality and value while gaslighting us as to how great they are, and we keep sniveling after them and handing over more money.

So for the first time in a decade, when it was time to renew my membership, I let it lapse. I decided to draw the line and value my own time, money and energy over the two-pack of cauliflower crust pizza and the 40-pack of toilet paper. I decided, finally, that I would withdraw my participation in the Great Capitalist Race to the Bottom.  It wasn’t worth the way I was treated, and the way I felt when I left the store. And even though Costco treats their employees (relatively) decently, they very clearly no longer stress good service or basic respect as part of their business model.

But one day awhile back, as I was ordering food on a popular shopping delivery app, I was told how much I could save if I renewed my membership. So I did.

What the hell, I thought, I don’t have to go into the store, and the money I’ll save by being a member will more than make up for the delivery fees! So they hooked me back in. And I continued that way, still a member but never having to deal with the store in person because I only shopped there through the delivery app. It was very expensive, but convenient. Like how being punched in the shoulder is better than being punched in the face.

“It was very expensive, but convenient. Like how being punched in the shoulder is better than being punched in the face.”

Until I quit my job, and could no longer justify using the delivery service.

So there I was on that rainy night, at the tail end of a long day of running errands, and I had just a couple of things I needed at Costco. I parked the car and began to hype myself up to go in and get it over with.

Come on, girl, you’re an old soldier- a veteran of 20 years of Back-to-School shopping!

You’ve witnessed Black Friday brawls that would turn a weaker person’s hair white!

You’ve survived the Covid Shopping Wars!

It probably won’t even be that busy because it’s dinner time and it’s raining and you know exactly what you need and you’ll be out of there in no time!

Now get in there and get those chicken nuggets!

I marched through the rain and made my way up to the door in good time.

But I never made it past the barcode scanner.

The human/droid informed me, in it’s warm and soothing robotic drone voice that my membership was expired and needs to be renewed please step out of line and make my way to the front desk thank you next beep boop beep bop, and repeated it over and over while I squinted at my app and tried to figure out if I had made some small error that could be easily fixed.

Hahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahaha!!!!

That’s a good joke, I know. But even a battle-scarred old campaigner like me can still dream.

After being droned at for a few more minutes by the human/droid I reluctantly made my way up to the service desk, where I took my place in line.

Not too bad, I tried to comfort myself, there’s only a couple of people ahead of you.

Thirty minutes, an empty stomach and a full bladder later, it was finally my turn. I explained to the associate (Trish, an unusually friendly and helpful lady- I wondered what crime she’d committed within the organization to be forced to work the service desk) that I’d renewed my membership via the app but it wasn’t showing up. I showed them proof of purchase on both the app as well as my credit card statement, hushed my whining bladder and settled in to have the issue resolved. There still might be time to pick up the nuggets and make it home for dinner, if all went well.

Trish then proceeded to go down the longest, deepest, most twisted and winding rabbit hole known to the history of man. It took an additional forty-five minutes, two other associates, two members of management, several phone calls to tech support and a blood sacrifice to St. Homobonus, the patron saint of merchants and shopkeepers, before it was resolved.

By the end of it, I was so angry I could barely see straight. But not at Trish. If anything, I was just as angry on her behalf. Clearly, she wasn’t getting paid enough for this bullshit and clearly, she owed the Costco company a big favor (maybe they’d gotten her kid into a good school or eliminated a rival employee from consideration for a promotion…or maybe she had gambling debts?). Whatever her crime, it must have been bad enough to justify her willingly going through all of that just to verify my proof of membership.

No, what rankled me was the system itself. As I was in the process of scrolling through dozens upon dozens of Costco receipts totaling in the thousands of dollars in order to show them my proof of purchase and renewed membership, I saw just how much time, money and loyalty I’d given to Costco. I’d been a good-no, a great- customer for them! I’d always behaved well, went out of my way to put back items I’d changed my mind about in the right place, didn’t leave carts laying around, and stood in endless lines like a good little sheep. I’d bought my eyeglasses, gas and tires from them. I’d spent the equivalent of a brand new car at this company.

Yet their management had no trouble knowing all this and still behaving as if I were attempting to steal from them. Their message was loud and clear: “Shut up and stand still while we spend an hour of everyone’s precious time, resources and energy to make sure we’re getting every stinking penny that we can and no, it doesn’t matter that you have proof and clearly have been a loyal customer, what really matters is that our business model is what’s known in the industry as the “Fuck ‘Em Model”, wherein both customers and employees are used, disrespected and undervalued in order to wring just another farthing of value from them so that we can appease shareholders and post record profits.”

And if that seems like a Boomer statement, know this: a quick internet search revealed that Costco reported fiscal-year 2025 net income of $8.099 billion, up from $7.367 billion in fiscal 2024. This was its highest annual net income reported at that time, and their 2026 numbers are projected to climb even higher.

 But never once did anyone in that entire group think of an alternative solution to the problem. And as a former retail manager and boutique shop owner, I know that they do have alternatives- a temporary day pass, for one thing, and a promise to investigate at a later date in order to save me, and the others in line behind me, time and hassle. And it was only Trish- poor, sweet Trish- who thought to apologize on behalf of her company’s Profit-First Policy.

They were doing the absolute minimum they could for me, but I had been agreeing to it for years.

So I did the only thing left that I could do. I waited until the situation was eventually resolved, thanked them all for their time and effort, and canceled my membership.

Because I’m not going to allow myself to get slapped around anymore. I know my worth. I saw it, in actual dollars and cents, as I stood at the service desk on a rainy night at dinnertime trying to show them what a good girl I was.

It’s why I stopped going to Wal-Mart years ago. It’s why I’m currently breaking my addiction to Amazon. It’s why I’m going to cancel Netflix the minute they cancel another popular show to appease whatever algorithm metrics that they value more than their actual viewers.

Because what is happening is that they are giving as little service as they can get away with while charging us as much as they can get away with. These businesses are supposed to serve us, not the other way around. And we do have power: our hard-earned dollars. In fact, it might be all the power we have left. If we’re not too lazy to use it. So I’ve decided to stop giving it away. I’m leaving these toxic consumer relationships.

Call me Karen- I don’t care’n anymore. And Trish, if you’re reading this- what we went through together that night? You don’t get paid enough for that bullshit either.