No one NEEDS a Costco membership. But in my early 30’s it seemed that most of the parties I attended were fueled by chips, cookies, cakes, vodka, all with the same signature brand- Kirkland. I wanted in.


It didn’t make sense to take on the annual $50 membership alone. But what other single person wanted to join me in Costco matrimony just for the family-sized products?

My first Costco “husband” was a female coworker. Sometimes we shared a shrimp platter but we generally led separate Costco lives.  We would have renewed after a year but I didn’t really want to. She had become distant and I found out she was saying mean things about me – like that I’m moody, WHICH I AM, but still. She changed jobs and disappeared and I was once again Costco single.

Luckily, my boyfriend proposed. Actual marriage. This Costco partnership would now be so much easier. All groceries would go to one home. All coupons to one household. It was finally, the union that Costco and the Bible intended.

But then my husband and I went our separate ways. Much to everyone’s surprise, we continued to share the membership and even take trips to Costco together. He didn’t have a car and I liked the company. We got along great. Until we had a fight over how we were going to file our taxes from the year that we were married. I was so angry with him, that I did the unthinkable. I Costco broke up with him. And I didn’t even tell him.

I didn’t know that the next time he would use his card, he would be with his parents. Full cart in tow at the register, his card would be rejected and he would be forced to get a new membership on the spot or leave. He called me to tell me how awful the experience was and how he felt like a criminal. Still, I can’t believe I used Costco for evil.

My new Costco rebound husband was just a friend. And like me, he was also a hot dog enthusiast, which is ideal because at Costco, you can get a hot dog and a diet coke for $1.50. We shopped together a lot. He was as giddy about the savings as I was. And in time, we became giddy about each other. We started dating. Oh, Costco romance. We joked about getting actually married at Costco. There were aisles. Customer service could officiate. And then everyone could have hot dogs! When I renewed the membership, I upgraded to executive and paid for the whole thing. I was in love.

Until he broke up with me.

Really broke up with me. And I didn’t have a back up or any one I knew who had ever expressed interest in warehouse pricing. So I just left it. I left it until it came up for renewal. It didn’t make sense to support discounts he would be sharing with someone else.

But who would be my new Costco husband? I guess I could have the membership by myself. But who needs that much toilet paper? And does it say about me that I can’t even hold down a successful Costco relationship?

Seeing the carnage of partners behind me, I could only choose someone I didn’t want to be involved with or even friends with. I needed a business partner who just would help me sever ties with my current partner and secure my future of bulk M&Ms.

I thought about asking a 20-something hipster at work. Even though we had become pretty good friends, we grew apart and now, he and I were only occasional carpool buddies.

So three months ago, I finally decided to propose. He jumped at the chance to share the membership, maybe hoping for a chance to rekindle our friendship. He didn’t know about my sordid past and was walking into a trap. “Once you take that pixelated photo for your card, any hope of friendship will VANISH.”

I was optimistic the day we met at Costco for our marriage ceremony. After he took his picture, signed on the dotted line and gave me his half of the membership fee, we took our first official lap around the store. Into the cart, he tossed a monster-sized box of granola bars and cereal. I picked up spring rolls and a package of corn. We checked out.

And we haven’t spoken since.