I have a conviction.

Nobody freak out–it’s weird, I know. But I’ve found something to take a stand for, and now there’s no going back. You should be proud.

Beginning this, the Fourth Day of November, 2008… I, Camille of Archives of Our Lives, will hereby never step foot into another Wal*Mart™. Ever.

I’m so passionate about my new conviction, I could probably go write for these guys.

How’s that for conviction? Oh, what? You thought I was going to write something political, given the fact that this is a very big day for America? Nah…I got over that. No more politics on this blog.

But back to the matter at hand: Wal*Mart™. I will no longer be using their “services,” and calling it “service” is being generous.

How did I come to this amazing conclusion, you ask? Simple. Last month, during the most stressful week of my life, I walked through the doors of a Wal*Mart™ at 3:30 a.m. I walked out an hour later, and my faith in humanity was gone.

See, I was accompanying Chelsie, who needed to buy spray paint for–well, it’s a long story. Of course there were no available associates within a 10-aisle proximity to the paint department, and of course the spray paint is kept locked away, so we were forced to scour the aisles for 10 minutes before finally finding any life form whatsoever.

It was another 10 minutes before we actually found any useful life form (i.e. someone with a bloody key to the spray paint case).

If that had been the end of the trauma, I would probably be fine. However, as we approached the one and only check-out line, the dense air of change hovered thickly over my head. I should have known.

There they were, two middle-aged ladies standing behind one checkout counter, chatting away as if they were getting mani-pedis together, instead of what they were actually doing [working for, in my opinion, the world’s most hateful and monopolising enterprise]. Though we approached the conveyor belt of doom with our items (I’d detoured to find my favourite lotion ever made) in the same cart, we put them on the black-top seperately, and divided them clearly with a plastic bar reading “Wal*Mart™…Always low prices. Always.” {Subliminal messages, anyone? Brainwashing? Lemmings? What?}

Chelsie’s spray paint was first. The woman in charge of scanning (she wasn’t wearing a name tag, or I surely would have remembered what to call her) turned towards us and began lethargically scanning each can of paint. Upon completing that task, she asked to see Chelsie’s identification (as buying spray paint is illegal for minors in the state of Arizona). No problem. Chelsie’s 23 if she’s a day. {Though, may I point out, this was at least our fourth trip to Wal*Mart™ for spray paint within the week, and she’d been carded once, and been taken on good faith twice. Not exactly the most stringent standards, Wal*Mart™.}

Chelsie produces her I.D. with no incident, and the lady looked at it–with only her eyes–and returned it to Chelsie. End of story.

But not the end of story. Instead of proceeding to swipe Chelsie’s debit card–as all the other cashiers had done during the past week–she turned to me and asked for my I.D.

“Excuse me?” I asked, thinking I’d heard her incorrectly. Surely she wasn’t carding me, too! I wasn’t buying any paint–there was a divider between my lotion and Chelsie’s paint. What more did she want?

“I.D.,” she repeated, almost menacing this time. Clearly she was annoyed by having her 3 a.m. chat interrupted.

“Oh,” I explained, “well I’m not buying any spray paint.”

“You’re in the same party, though. I need your I.D.”

Seriously? Seriously. This had never happened to me before, and I was mad. Of course I had an I.D., and of course I’m over 18, and of course I could produce it at will. But this woman seemed to go about it so bitterly, as though this–this harassment of me–was going to make everything right in her world. I was not happy.

“Well,” I said, “I’m not in her party, then. We just met up back there on aisle one hundred fifty, and she let me put my lotion in her cart. I don’t even know her.” I knew there was no way this blatant lie would get me anything, but I wanted to make it as miserable an experience for that woman as she’d made mine.

She looked at me blankly.

Oh, was I ticked. If poor Chelsie didn’t need the spray paint so much, I would have simply walked away. [But therein lies the power of Wal*Mart™. They stay open later than any other store in the universe (i.e. always. There’s that word again.), so that fools like me can plan on procrastinating, and then I’m forced to accept their mistreatment of me, simply because there’s no alternative.]

Finally I handed her my driver’s license–it took me all of one second–along with the sentiment that this was the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard [immature, I know. But I needed some shred of…dignity…or…something.].

This time, though, when the cashier took my I.D., instead of just inspecting it for a birth date, she swiped it. She swiped it! Through her credit card machine! As if it would give access to the Arizona State I.D. records, and she would be able to see if I had a history of sniffing spray paint at 3 a.m.! SHE FREAKING SWIPED MY DRIVER’S LICENSE! {No amount of exclamation points could possibly express how furious I was.}

Upon seeing nothing–absolutely nothing–appear on her screen after swiping my card, she handed it back to me with a huff. I paid my total, took my own bag, and walked away with Chelsie, fuming for hours afterwards (That’s right. hours. 3:30 a.m., and our day was still hours away from being finished. It was a really long week.). So is Wal*Mart™ telling me that if I was a mom of four kids who needed me to buy spray paint for their community theatre backdrop, I would have to hire a sitter so that I could legally buy the cans of paint without a minor “in my party?”

Go to hell, Wal*Mart™. I’ve never–never–had a positive experience there. And yes, I do believe that a certain amount of retail therapy can make one have a more positive outlook on life. But with Wal*Mart™, I leave feeling like my soul is sucked right out of my body. I really, really loathe Wal*Mart™. Their customer service is sub-par on every level and at every department I’ve ever braved. I will pay a little more to shop somewhere I’m treated like a person, not a number.

“Save money. Live better.” is their newest slogan. More fitting would be “Save money. At a cost.” Image from here.

Think about it…have you ever left Wal*Mart™ feeling better than when you arrived? Probably not.

Good deals be d*mned. I will cut coupons and watch deals as much as I have to, so I won’t even notice a dent in the budget from the sudden change in grocery stores. No amount of blue light specials are worth my value as a human being. I’ll plan ahead so I can shop at a store that closes at 10 p.m., and if I fail to do so, I will simply fail. No more last-minute run-ins to buy poster board for the assignment due tomorrow. And since making this commitment, since finding the conviction never to step foot in a Wal*Mart™ again, I have noticed a little spring in my step. A bounce to my spring. I’m like a dadgum Tigger.

I feel free.

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