The Club

I wasn't a country club kid. I never played golf or tennis, and I spent my summer afternoons at the free public pool.  But, like most kids, I always wanted to be part of a club. When I was about six, my dad built a cottage playhouse in our backyard. Mom painted the inside sky blue and trimmed the windows with Care Bear curtains. It was (and still is) adorable. We called it a playhouse, but deep down, I knew what it really was: a clubhouse. A secret meeting place. A place where I could stash penny candy and costume jewelry from the dress-up collection. I had a key on a real keychain that signified to the world, "This is my place." I spent hours in that little house playing grown-ups with my besties. One summer, we spent days digging a pool outside the window, carefully lining it with black trash bags and filling it with water. A five-star lounging experience it was not, but it was my place.

Years later, I joined a sorority where I learned a lot about myself. Mostly, I learned that I don't do well with committee work, and I abhor sitting by candlelight talking about my feelings. Even then, I found the idea of the club comforting.

In law school, I found my stride. I not only joined clubs, I presided over clubs. People knew my name, and I knew theirs. I had an office that was half mine for the year, along with a crusty microwave and a few tattered reference guides.  It was my place.

I lost my mojo for a few years and didn't really have a place. Sure, I joined the ranks of both working moms and stay-at-home moms (leaving me in a strange limbo where I couldn't quite sign a membership card for either club); but, I still felt that something was missing.

Until now. It's Thanksgiving Eve, and as I made one last grocery run, I realized that I've once again found my club--a place where they know my name, and I know theirs, a place that offers endless entertainment, a place that requires a special key for entry:

Sam's Club.

I spend more time there than I could possibly spend at a country club, and it's so much better.  I've been there 5 times in 24 hours. I know the greeters by name (Hi James!), and they know me. I don't even have to show my special key(card) for entry anymore--even during the early morning "Plus" hours.  My kids think it's their country club, and why shouldn't they? We eat supper there; in the mornings, we're greeted with fresh fruit and snacks; and when we've all reached our boiling points, we often head to the club just for the accountability of public space. If there was a pool out back, we'd never go home. RJ has developed a fondness for the scent of bulk laundry detergent. Yesterday, we had to go to another grocery store (because who really needs 60 ounces of black olives?), and RJ sniffed as we passed the cleaning aisle, "Mom! It smells really good in here, just like Sam's!"

I envy those women who make one neatly outlined, categorized, legible shopping list for holidays. They know where they'll find cracked wheat, fresh cranberries, and those little tiny sweet pickles. They've started cooking before I've remembered that I forgot butter.

This year, I visited the club an average of once every 5 hours leading up to the holiday. I also visited its satellite location a/k/a Wal-Mart twice, Sprouts, Target, and Crest. My list is written on the backs of two receipts and an old sod farm notepad, and I just discovered that I'm out of paper towels.  Still, I'm grateful for the club and the ability to pop around the corner for fresh fruits, vegetables, prescriptions, and laundry soap. I'm thankful that I'm able to celebrate another year with my family. I'm grateful that I've finally found my place and settled into a routine once more--even when that routine puts me at the club one more time.

Here's wishing that you find your place this year. May your cupboards be full, your laundry April fresh,    your turkeys golden brown, and your families happy, healthy, and satisfied. Cheers! Happy Thanksgiving!