Dear BJs,
Let’s rewind to 2017. That’s when I joined the Costco congregation, gave my allegiance to the Church of Kirkland, and proudly brandished my Executive Membership card like a badge of honor. I was a believer. I preached the gospel of bulk savings, scooped up towering crates of snacks I didn’t really need, and happily swam upstream in the checkout lines with the rest of the faithful.
Life was good.
But over time, the shine wore off.
These days, walking into Costco feels like stepping into a full-blown panic drill. People careen around corners with overloaded carts. Children cling to 48-packs of muffins like life rafts. And the parking lot… the parking lot is a demolition derby wrapped in a waiting game. There’s always someone stalking my parking spot before I’ve even opened the back of the truck. I have genuinely considered faking an injury just to buy myself a few extra seconds to organize my groceries.
And here’s the kicker. The deals? Not quite as magical as they used to be. Kirkland Signature, once a hallmark of shockingly good quality, now feels like it’s been outsourcing its soul to the lowest bidder. Sure, some stuff is still a steal. But increasingly, I found myself asking why I just bought 64 granola bars that taste like insulation.
Then I found you.
One day, while wandering Groupon to avoid doing anything productive, I stumbled across a deal: a 20 dollar membership to BJs. Spend 60 dollars, get 20 back in rewards. It seemed like a low-stakes experiment. Worst-case scenario, I’d spend sixty bucks on cereal and cat litter and call it a day.
Instead, I was genuinely impressed. You were basically the Costco I remembered loving.
First, the crowd. Or rather, the absence of it. Even on a Saturday, I didn’t have to fight anyone for elbow room in the produce section. No cart jams. No wild-eyed shoppers lunging for the last rotisserie chicken. It was like warehouse shopping, but sedated in the best possible way.
Second, checkout. Your app let me scan as I shopped, pay from my phone, and walk out. No lines. No conveyor belts. No cart Tetris. I just paid and left like some kind of warehouse ninja. It felt so smooth, I half expected a security guard to tackle me at the exit just on principle.
Product-wise, you hit most of the same notes as Costco, but with a few delightful variations. More grocery options per category. A surprisingly solid meat section. A deli counter. Actual variety. Your store brands, Wellsley Farms and Berkley Jensen, don’t try to be artisanal, but they hold their own. And while you don’t have a food court slinging pizza slices the size of car tires, the fact that you’re next to a Taco Bell more than makes up for it.
Price-wise, you’re right in the sweet spot. Often cheaper than Costco. And you take manufacturer coupons. That’s right. Coupons. Like it’s 2003 and I’m trying to save my way through community college. I didn’t even realize how much I missed that until I used a few and suddenly felt like I had discovered a hidden financial tunnel beneath the warehouse floor.
So now I’m in this weird in-between space. I haven’t completely renounced Costco, but I am definitely cheating. You’re the new warehouse fling. The one that doesn’t make me feel like I need a Gatorade and a nap afterward. The one that isn’t trying to test the limits of my patience or vehicle suspension.
If anyone out there is still knee-deep in Kirkland devotion and quietly wondering why they feel so drained, I now send them to you. Let them walk your smooth, uncluttered aisles. Let them scan and go. Let them discover that the kingdom of bulk savings is broader than they knew.
And if all else fails, they can get a Crunchwrap next door.
Sincerely,
James