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# Slalom
- URL: https://dianaludwick.com/slalom/
- Published: 2026-05-03T16:32:43.000Z
- Updated: 2026-10-24T20:08:59.000Z
- Description: “Slalom,” a participant-observation of navigating the mean aisles of Costco on a Sunday. Written May 03, poem 123 in a series of 365 poems written by Diana Ludwick in 2026. Photo: "Chaos in the Checkout," by Diana Ludwick (c) 2026
- Author: Diana Ludwick
- Tags: 2026 Poetry Challenge, Dry Humor, Generational, Humor, Petty, Poems, Rants, Snarky, 2026, AI, Armour, cart rage, Costco, elderly, Figs, Haagen Dazs, Harbor Seal, Ice Cream, If You Have a Phone, May, reciepts, Rotisserie Chicken, Shark, Shopping cart, Shopping wars, Siri Reminders, spatially unaware, The mean streets of Inner Costco, The Purge, trolley, #Migrated-1792872215677, #wp, #wp-post, #Import 2026-10-24 20:03

Rare three-hour gap  
in my schedule  
guess I should go to  
Costco on a Sunday.  
  
What fun it will be to   
eat rotisserie, Mom says.  
OK I'll pick up one for you,   
one for me. Easy dinner!  
  
My child opts out, clever girl.  
So it's me against the masses.  
Drive away from the city.  
As I near the turn, traffic slows.  
  
The cars weave in and out of  
parking spots and access roads  
at low speed, indiscriminate of  
stop signs and pedestrians.   
  
Seems no one recalls   
driver's ed lessons  
on Sunday afternoons  
around these parts.  
  
By the time I have parked  
at the far end of the lot  
I know my cortisol is spiking.  
  
I plot my way to the entrance  
dodging over-loaded carts   
backing-up cars,   
and escaped toddlers.  
  
Crossing the street on foot   
turned out to be the   
safest part of my trip.  
  
I allow myself to be   
astonished that so many   
people from behind or at   
rear flank think that it is   
their turn, not mine, to scan in.  
  
Once inside, the people   
I outpaced clip at my heels   
with their shopping trolley.  
Now, all bets are off.  
  
Costco implicitly guides  
its members and their carts  
through a prescribed maze.   
First, down the first main hall.  
Then, they expect you to loop left,  
through the meats  
and to through the far right.  
Then, I'm to loop up and down   
the interior aisles before  
Ivolley for a place   
in the checkout queues.  
  
And yet, none of that   
process engineered ballet  
is on display today.   
Instead? Mayhem.   
  
Before I make it to   
the first intersection,   
I've been swiped three times  
from unexpected angles.  
  
Head on a swivel,   
I endeavor to ford the river   
of double-wide carts  
to cut into the snack section.  
  
In between the RX and Lara  
and Reeses-branded protein bars,   
I recall how narrow these   
packed inner rows can be.  
  
There's barely enough room  
for two expert navigators,   
let alone the immobile   
or unpredictably shuffling peds  
and the inevitable minefield of   
abandoned carts.  
  
Squeezing by pallets of nut mix,  
I quickly tire of   
thwarting off so many would-be   
four-wheeled assassins.   
  
I squish my body into walls  
of Ferrero Rocher truffles  
yet another time before I flee  
back to the Wild West.  
  
The Running of the Carts   
is in full force.  
  
I whisper a gratitude   
to myself that I'd preemptively  
donned defensive footwear.  
  
To protect the squeamish,   
all I'll say is:  
The flip flop incident of 2018  
is a Never Again kind of injury,  
of the sole and to the soul.  
  
Within a few short minutes  
my cart is harder to push,   
slowed down by its rapidly   
accumulating mass.  
  
I refer to my Reminders Lists  
(yes lists, plural)  
to discover where Siri   
has squirreled away   
all my requested items:  
  
**Costco list** \[bulk boxes R us\]  
 \--onions  
 \--seltzer  
 \-- ramen broth  
 \-- Greek yoghurt...  
(Siri, you got these right, good job...)  
  
**Grocery list** \[for regular market\]  
 \-- bulk string cheese   
 \-- Kirkland Milk (Siri, really?)  
 \-- Costco rotisserie chicken...   
(Siri, *come'mon*)  
  
**Shopping list** \[system default\]  
 \-- Pellegrino, glass one liter, box of twelve  
 \-- Costco-Kirkland-FROM-COSTCO PISTACHIOS!  
(Siri, come see me after class.)  
  
Why does Apply not attribute  
all my reminders to one list?  
One wonders. In any case,   
it's an indication that AI   
is still baking, not yet done.  
I digress.   
  
I dutifully check off Siri items  
while my once nimble body  
shows signs of fatigue  
from its state of perpetual vigilance.  
  
To my left, an eager shopper  
slides a frozen side of lamb  
precariously into their arms.  
They haphazardly coax   
the stiff half-body into   
an awaiting trolley.  
  
All the while,   
I narrowly miss  
being shivved by a   
cotton-sheathed rear hoof.  
  
I somehow make it into  
the walk-in morgue, alias:  
the Dairy room.  
I wait my turn to enter.  
After the sixth or seventh   
person in a row cuts me off,   
I make a break for the eggs  
then cut back hard into the   
towers of milk.   
  
After selecting a tray of eggs,  
I make a calm path to my cart.  
Two carts at once careen   
towards me, neither caring   
that I will lose in either scenario.  
  
I'm looking at both of the pushers  
and deduce they seem fine  
with the highly possible outcome   
that I will be smashed into  
a skyscraper of eggs, left for dead.  
  
I am haunted by a brief vision:  
my lifeless body, limbs splayed,  
turning blue, icy eggshell shards   
frozen to my yolky face,   
intestines caught up in a cart wheel--  
  
I snap out of it,   
self-preservation instincts activated.  
*FLIGHT!*  
I yield backward to the right;   
narrowly escaping my disection.  
  
In the process, my butt is rammed  
by the laden pushcart of   
a grey-haired, wrinkle-faced   
woman, half my size but   
with thrice the animus.  
  
She does not even glance up,  
despite my cheeks being   
shish kabobed to her front grille.  
Her nervous system is set to: *FIGHT!*  
  
I run a mantra in my head,   
as I force a long exhale.  
*Respect your elders*.  
*Respect your elders...*  
  
But I'd be lying if I didn't mention.  
I'm about ready to call my  
*If You Have a Phone,* 
*You Have a Lawyer*.  
You know, that 1-800 number  
from the 1980s era cable TV ads.  
  
But that, of course, would entail  
standing, unprotected,   
in one place.  
And I don't wish   
to be a prime target for   
the next angry patron, or ten.  
  
I plot a bold move to exit,   
pushing through with   
the heft of my   
harvested goods.  
  
The long-established rule  
of the high seas is:  
The Law of Gross Tonnage.  
E.g., the heavier craft prevails  
when caught in a game of chicken   
with another, smaller boat.  
  
Yet in Costco,   
in the hellscape   
that is the back left corner,   
people have given up hope.  
  
They have also probably lost  
a child or a parent   
— or a shoe two aisles back.  
They are now blinders-on,   
criss-crossing foot traffic  
with reckless self-entitlement.   
  
No one seems to give a fig   
about anyone else's safety,   
no less a 36-count carton of them,   
even if fresh in from Greece.  
  
Game of chicken....  
*CHICKEN!*  
Consulting my lists, I see  
I still owe my Mom and me  
our EZ-button Sunday dinner:   
rotisserie chickens.  
  
Yes, those lusty loss leaders.  
They lure the Membered Class.  
Thrifty falsehoods, they con us  
into believing we are saving  
as we toss and drag and stuff  
hundreds of dollars of merch  
into our overflowing, migratory   
vessels of consumerism.  
  
I pick the two largest,   
crispiest specimens from  
the freshest section of  
the chicken tanning salon.  
  
I sling two searingly hot bags  
in my left hand.  
I use my right to fend off carts  
and purses and canes and  
trolley-encaged children's feet  
kicking up at me from gonad height.  
  
Speaking of hellscapes.  
Did I mention that the entire time  
that I have been   
fighting for my life in these  
mean streets of Inner Costco  
that an ominous, ceaseless   
and piercing alarm  
has been blaring and bleating  
through the whole warehouse?  
  
Oh. Well, that's happening.   
Maybe the alarm is a sleeper cell   
call to *The Purge*, and now   
all these shoppers   
really are out for blood?   
  
I don't care to stay here  
long enough to find out.  
  
I slip one rotisserie chicken handle  
onto the grey metal hook   
at the front of my carriage.  
  
The second one,   
I lay gently on a large flax box,   
far away from the cold foods.  
  
I carve a path through a  
throng of indecisive   
pineapple squeezers.  
I steer into an eddy at the   
back-end of the coffee beans.  
  
With this momentary calm,  
I dash out a quick text to my sibling,   
lest I not make it out alive:  
  
"The lack of self-awareness  
and spatial awareness   
paired with scarcity mindset  
makes skipping at Costco  
on a Sunday afternoon  
an absolute death match."  
  
They respond, swiftly:  
"Costco shopping is an adventure.   
I now go in with an audio book  
and completely dissociate  
to protect the peace."  
  
A two-cart wide brigade is   
now pushing towards me   
with five kids in tow.   
*Ooph* gotta jet!  
  
I do not want to get pinned  
against this column of   
granite state granola and the  
wall of glass Pellegrino bottles.   
  
(Talk about being stuck   
between a rock and a haute place.)  
  
((I'll be here all week))  
  
(((No truly, I may perish here.)))  
  
I pivot out of sudden death,   
right into the belly of the beast,  
otherwise known as  
the frozen treats back alley.  
  
This is where club members  
tend to well,   
club  
members.  
  
A slalom of tall glass  
refrigerator doors heave   
open and pinch shut   
into the four-way highway  
of mightily heavy pushcarts.  
  
This sacred Sunday,   
the Costco lords have chosen  
to put two barricades of   
50-pound bags of  
brand-named potting soil.  
  
These Home Depot-coded items  
set on the floor in slippery stacks  
are laying directly across from   
the freezer with Haagen Dazs  
chocolate-dipped ice cream bars.  
  
The ones, I observe,   
over which  
this entire side of the store  
is circling in frenzy.  
  
Discount deluxe dairy divinity?   
Costco knows what it's doing.  
They're chumming the water.   
The air is electric   
with consumer desire   
and purchasing demand.  
  
Soon I'm a walker in a vice grip   
between two dueling carts.  
I'm in the middle, unable to move.  
They arc and slice at one   
another while I stand in fear  
of losing toes through my trainers.   
**NEVER AGAIN!** My brain yells.  
  
Metal clashes against metal.  
CRUNCH!   
 CLANK!   
 CRINGE!  
I swear I see a wave of colors  
as the imaginary house flag   
of the winning dueler  
snaps gloatingly in the air.  
  
The winner dives into the pile   
of dirt, and has her partner  
come behind me   
to slither a slick bag   
off the top of the pile.  
  
Each of them are on   
opposite flanks of me,   
a dirt bag to my front,   
and a losing cart to my rear.   
I am keen to be clued into  
their brilliant game plan here.  
  
Oh, I see! I know.  
It slowly dawns on me.  
They are simply getting the   
earth ready for my imminent burial.  
  
I continue to stand fixed in place,   
lamenting my stupidity   
for saving this "little errand"   
for prime-time wrestling hour.  
It gives me time to text my dad:  
  
"I see a woman across from me   
wearing leather thongs.   
Unguarded toes!   
Does she even know what happens   
in the Frozen aisle?  
The sheer number of carts   
whipping through here.  
\*Nothing\* is more painful   
than wearing flip flops   
to Costco on a Sunday!"  
  
Within seconds, he sends a  
\*Cry-Laughter\* emoji reply.  
  
It gets quieter near the olives.  
I temporarily abandon my huntings   
to nab a 16-count of Kleenex cubes.   
(On sale! See, savings!).  
  
I decide to take an unorthodox  
yet legal route to the register  
(no, don't even ask,   
not even on my   
very-currently-at-risk life   
am I going to share my hack)  
  
Miraculously,   
I am but one doddering,   
aisle-blocking cart away  
from accessing a   
two-person-long queue for the till.  
  
I am home free!   
But, no, I know better.  
Don't celebrate yet!   
The Aisle Blocker moves   
from turtle speed   
into freeze mode.  
  
They just --- stop.   
In the middle.   
Between two check-out lanes.  
*I may finally lose my shiiiiiiiii---*  
  
"Hello, excuse me, Ma'am?   
Can I just scoot right through?"   
She stares at my eyes but not into them.  
She makes no motion.   
  
"Can I just --   
 if you just---  
 could I just..."   
  
More blinking, from her.  
Blankly, slack-jawed  
in my general direction.  
She's gone-gone.  
  
While I desperately  
attempt to communicate,   
two enterprising cart jockeys  
maneuver their loaded carriages  
right into "my" lane.  
  
I point, futilely,   
at the now occupied spot,   
and at the lady blocking me.   
"Hi!" I was..."  
  
The precision drivers  
become suspiciously  
simultaneously occupied   
in their respective phone screens.  
  
I know they can hear me--  
Oh, forget it.  
  
I wait in a different, gnarly queue.  
Six back, I see every cart   
ahead of me is groaning with products.  
I live here now.   
Please forward my mail.  
I am atoning for something.  
But for what?   
I am not sure.  
  
The copious time in front of me  
gives me the opportunity to   
pay it forward, be a dear.  
  
I carefully rotate each item  
with a barcode so the black   
and white stripes are top-up,  
facing the awaiting cashier   
and their hand-held scanner.  
  
But my handiwork,   
my peace offering,   
is not accepted.  
The attendant sighs, crams  
all my items back together,  
ignores my gesture of efficiency.  
  
Fine. I'm almost out of here.  
I get to the double card scan,  
once for membership validation;  
twice for credit card transaction.  
The clerk hands me the receipt.   
I note my bill is nearly five hundy.  
Whoofffff.   
But it could have been worse, right?  
Right?  
  
I brace for impact as   
I thread my way through  
defeated dads and   
hyperbolic children  
and breakable-looking old men  
eating dollar and a quarter  
hot dogs in the exit lane.  
  
By the time I have proven that   
I am not a criminal   
and earn my official Sharpie swipe   
through my receipt,   
I've aged eighteen months.  
  
I use brute force to grunt my   
over-the-brim haul to my car,  
crossing raised thresholds and   
sidewalk curb cuts   
and cranky motorists  
and dead-eyed mother-types.  
  
Somehow I'm not run-over,   
nor flattened.  
To celebrate, I unload my   
year's worth of food that  
I'd bought to last two weeks.  
  
I body-check every box,   
bundle, package and   
clam shell into the trunk.  
And then I turn to find   
the hot chicks,  
the rotisseried pair.  
  
I pick up my mom's; place it   
in the passenger foot well.  
I even gave the bird its own   
reclaimed box, for comfort.  
  
I turn back to collect   
my rod-spun poultry  
and to return the trolley.  
Something beneath it catches my eye.  
But wait, what is that?  
In the void where the chicken layed,  
is now a dented plastic bundle  
with a melty puddle showing through  
its peep-and-reveal window  
in the packaging.  
  
It's the bulk   
Polly-O string cheese.  
My child's request, the one  
that set off this journey  
now oil-seeped and floppy  
at the bottom of  
the pit of despair.  
\= = =  
I am a lady.  
I am a gentle woman.  
I am a mom.  
I am a role model.  
 \= = =  
And so I wait until I am   
fully *inside* my car and door   
clamped behind me   
before I let a scream curdle   
in my lungs, fill my cabin  
with unleashed angst.  
This time no one is cutting me off.  
I let the yetis exit my system.  
  
I shake it off, exit the car.  
Pop the trunk, rip open a box.  
I tear the flimsy outer package  
and bite a chunk   
of Haagen Dazs ice cream bar  
like a shark taking down   
a harbor seal by its neck.  
  
I release my shoulders,   
lay down my armour.  
I relax into the manufactured bliss  
of chocolate, almonds, and vanilla.  
Okay, this is really good.   
And it was three bucks off!  
***What a(n) (or)deal.***