Thanks to Lynda W. for this
column.
Rosenberg: Sorry, Wal-Mart — now there's a new girl in town
Dear Wal-Mart,
Good morning, baby.
We need to talk.
I see you picked up around your parking lot. You look nice. Yes, I know you have the lowest prices. I never doubted it. Not once. I just like the way you look first thing in the morning, before you open yourself up to anyone with a few dollars to spend. You look sweet. Later in the day, you seem so sad and lonely. I hate seeing the carts of all those greedy strangers you let use you scattered carelessly outside your doors.
Look, there's no good way to say this so I'm just going to come straight out with it. I think it's time we both moved on.
Please don't cry. You're getting mascara all over that pretty blue smock of yours. C'mon, show Jim your big, yellow smiley face. That's better.
This is hard for me. Please don't make it any more difficult by lowering your prices like that right in front of me. You're better than that.
It's not you. It's me.
I remember when we met in the early 1980s. We were both so young. I was on my own for the first time, and you had just moved to North Carolina from your home in Pigsnout, Arkansas, or wherever.
I had never even heard of you until one weekend when I hooked up with your utty-slay friend Food Lion on the way to the beach. I couldn't believe it. She was practically giving it away. I was used to wide aisles and all the good stuff tucked away on unreachable shelves.
I remember entering with no resistance, taking exactly what I wanted and gratifying myself at little cost with a quick and easy checkout. I sat in my car afterwards feeling half guilty, half triumphant.
That's when I looked up and saw you across the street.
You knew I'd been with Food Lion, but you didn't care. You just invited me inside, and I was only too happy to oblige. You were so classically insecure, always talking about your domineering father, Sam.
To this day, you don't understand the psychological number he did on you by linking your self-esteem to pleasing others. He never taught his children to have faith in themselves. Look how messed up your big sister is. She's the size of a warehouse.
We had a great run. So much crap. It may be hard to believe this now, but I truly cherish every craptacular moment.
I was too embarrassed to tell you, but my first fireworks were with you that weekend in South Carolina. I was a little drunk, I admit it. I didn't know exactly what I was doing, but you put out a big display at the end of the aisle, and I just went for it.
My fuse was too short, but you never judged me. You covered up my doubt with some Little Debbie Oatmeal Pies and a liter of Sunkist soda. Sugar was your solution for nearly every problem, and it worked. Maybe that's not true love, but it's something, and I thank you for it.
The thing is, I've grown a lot.
There's something else, too. There's this new neighbor. Her name is Target, and ....
Please honey, I asked you before — stop lowering your prices like that to get my attention. I'm trying to talk to you. I'm trying to tell you it's not about prices, baby. Low prices aren't the answer to everything.
I've changed. There's nothing wrong with you. You have very low prices. The lowest, yes, I know. Always. None lower. Here's some sale tissue. Dry your eyes.
It's not that she's better than you. She's not. It's not that she treats me better than you. She doesn't. She just treats herself better than you do.
Maybe one day you will understand that. I hope so. For now, I think it's best for both of us to move on. Be strong for me.
Who knows what the future will bring? If we happen to cross paths on my way to the beach and I'm in the right mood, I just might zoom in for a quickie and let you ring me up. You can show me those low prices I love so much.
Always,
Jim
Jim Rosenberg lives and works in Greensboro. Contact him at jim.rosenberg@gmail.com.
