Over my second helping of pumpkin pie on Thanksgiving, I heard my latest lecture on the GDP. Which, in this case, does not stand for "Gross Domestic Product," but rather "Great Depression Pride."
This is the name I've given to the lecture series I sometimes get from random old people (who are often under the influence of libations and/or holiday cheer). They expound on the virtue of those who lived through the 1930s in America (namely them), enumerate the harsh living conditions and pie recipes of bygone days, and disparage the spending habits of today's society.
Disclaimer: I greatly respect the "Greatest Generation," and am actually envious of the earnest virtue its members acquired from a hardship I will never fully understand.
But Mabel, my latest GDP lecturer, happened to be three brandy-Manhattan sheets to the wind and in slurred words insisted that we young rapscallions know nothing about saving money.
I beg to differ. I believe our parents' generation and our own have learned something from the generation of Depression survivors -- those resourceful coupon clippers that lived in imminent fear of Hoovervilles and poverty, able to stretch the practical uses of cornmeal and twine into infinity.
Staring through her third Manhattan, I wanted to tell Mabel that we have adopted their frugality (if not their recipes) with zeal. Americans are bigger and badder cheapskates than ever before. We just don't want to admit it.
The evidence: Costco Wholesale. Millions of Valley residents and American cheapskates nationwide pay annual "club dues" for the privilege of meandering through gargantuan warehouses in search of the elusive 20-pound bag of popcorn dangerously balanced on the 12th shelf. In fact, insurance companies are considering putting a premium on Costco Club Members for the high risk of shopper-related personal injury.
The paradox of the cheapskate paying dues in an effort to pay less is humorous enough, but once one passes through the wind tunnel and enters Costco, the thriftiness gets even funnier.
Once inside, there are certain rules you must follow. The first rule of Costco membership is that you do not talk about Costco membership. You will know one another by your economy size mayonnaise jars and your pockets full of free sample toothpicks.
The second rule is that nobody around you should ever have more in their cart than you. In academic circles, this is referred to as "cart envy." "Keeping up with the Joneses" takes on a whole new meaning when you see what's in the Joneses' oversized cart ... Kleenex, a 200-pack of bakery-fresh onion bagels, and mini-watermelons.
Yes, they do exist. When I returned home last week, I felt pity for the dwarfed watermelons that I found in my parents' refrigerator. But my trek into Costco for Thanksgiving shopping afforded me the chance to see these mini-melons in their natural habitat.
Every cart either had a pair of the cute fruit or was on a mad dash to the fruit aisle to make sure their cart wasn't lacking. Not only are these delicacies mostly rind, but they're more expensive than your run-of-the-mill watermelon. Scholars point to "cart envy" as the only plausible explanation of this phenomenon.
The next rule of Costco membership is to eat all the free goodies you can. You might assume that affluent Scottsdale folks, in light of all the money they are saving by shopping at Costco, could afford to feed themselves well. Wrong.
Full-fledged feeding frenzies that rival the dolphin pool at Sea World occur daily in the aisles of Costco, where elite club members routinely mow down other club members and their children for a Dixie cup of rice pudding.
The final rule of Costco is that the value of your experience increases with your credit card purchase there. You can only leave the checkout line with your dignity IF your debit total rings up higher than the guy in front of you and the mother of 14 right behind.
On my most recent visit, I purchased a single box of granola bars for less than $10 in cash, and I was practically chased out of the warehouse. Customers in the lines next to me scoffed and thought,
"Doesn't she know there is nothing at Costco so small that cash will do? Where's her Visa? Where's her handtruck necessary to load her groceries? Where's the SAVINGS?"
Oh, don't be fooled. We Club members know how to save. The "Costco generation" is gaining fast on the "Greatest Generation," no matter what Mabel says.
So maybe I'll get Mabel her very own Costco card for Christmas so that she too can participate in the new wave of cheapness we all try so hard to conceal with our membership cards. They might even give her a senior discount.
Katie Petersen is an English and biology junior. Reach her at katie.petersen@asu.edu.
