There is no such thing as a quick trip to Costco. It has never existed. Every person who has ever said “I’m just running to Costco real quick” has returned ninety minutes later with a rotisserie chicken, a forty-eight pack of paper towels, a patio umbrella they didn’t know they needed, and a facial expression that suggests they’ve been through something.

Last Saturday I went for dog food. One item. I left with $247 worth of goods and a sincere belief that my family needed a six-pound bag of frozen potstickers. The sample lady made a compelling argument.

The parking lot alone takes fifteen minutes. The Costco parking lot is where Bozeman’s traffic problem lives when it’s not on North 19th. You will circle. You will wait behind someone loading a mattress into a sedan. You will briefly consider leaving and then remember you’ve already committed psychologically.

Inside, the store is designed by people who understand human weakness at a molecular level. You came for dog food but you walk past electronics, clothing, books, and an entire kitchen island display before you reach the food aisle. By the time you’re near the dog food you’ve picked up a fleece, batteries you don’t need yet but “will eventually,” and a moment of doubt about your cookware.

The checkout line is where time goes to die. You stand there long enough to read every ingredient on the protein bar you impulse-grabbed. You learn it contains “monk fruit extract” and wonder what a monk fruit is. You do not google it. You accept it and move forward, as one does at Costco.

I’m not saying don’t go. Costco is a vital community institution. I’m saying stop lying to your spouse about the timeline. Say “I’m going to Costco, I’ll be back in an hour and a half, and I will return with things we did not discuss.”

Patricia Lemongrass has been a Costco member since 2014 and shows no signs of recovery.