Wal-Mart & My Big Box of Guilt

Somewhere in the "piney woods" of East Texas, I am taking an extra dose of guilt with my holiday preparations and prenatal vitamins. Though I live in what's considered a "good-size" town, without traveling 40 or so miles I can do my regular retail shopping at just a few stores - Wal-Mart, Lowe's, Tractor Supply, and the three or four groceries. Nothing against Lowe's or Tractor Supply, but I just don't think my mother would appreciate lumber or horse tack as a gift, and I can't very well get my toddler a hammer or cordless drill. So that sets me up for a big spoonful of guilt.

For nearly 2 years, I didn't shop at Wal-Mart. I could pretend it was the noble path, protesting the way they treat their workers or the sweatshop labor used to produce most of their products, but really, I just hated the lack of service and the fact that whatever you bought would fall apart or need replacement within an incredibly short time. I had other options, as I was living in a large city. There were independent shops and funky thrift stores, and to bare a little more of my soul, our income was much higher. Then came the move, and suddenly, I had no option.

At first, I did try to stay away from the giant box perched on the highway. I joined the local Freecycle group, and changed my default Craigslist area. I scouted for thrift and consignment stores. The thing about East Texas and secondhand, though, is that people here "Use it up, wear it out, make it do or do without." Even the consignment stores were dirty and except for prom and wedding dresses, full of things well past resale stage. Garage sales are great, but after finding nothing but worn out jeans and stained t-shirts that were big enough to hide my stubborn post c-section belly, I had to give up and step inside.

The first time was the hardest. I vowed to get in, get out, and be done with it, like a laparascopic surgeon. I didn't count on my husband, though. He never understood my aversion to "Wally World," and joined in with my father in picking at me about it. Slowly, insidiously, we began to make more frequent trips, like an addict seeking a fix. It didn't help that they were the only place in town to get cloth diapers, baby clothes - and of course, the toys which began to multiply with every "just diapers and printing some photos." Now, too, the heretefore "secret" soda runs became full blown shopping expeditions. "Hey, check out what I got on the clearance aisle" became my hubby's favorite new greeting.

Well, I've had enough. We spend way too much money each time we go into that concrete coffin on stuff I'll throw out in two or three weeks. I hate standing in line for a cashier only to be directed to a torture device called a "self-checkout" aisle as he or she goes on break. The cranky senior citizens at the front door depress me - although I understand their crankiness, I wouldn't want to be standing there with arthritis in my knees and being expected to make arrests for minimum wage either. I hate being accused of shoplifting every third time through the door and having my bags subjected to search because the baby grabbed the receipt and stuffed it in the diaper bag or somewhere. I don't know what I'm going to do, but as soon as I get the gift wrap and presents home and under the tree, I'll make a new plan.