For the record, I’m a technophobe.
My many phobias include: electronic ticketing (hello, Ticketmaster), using the kiosk at McDonald’s and filling out online college financial aid forms for my sons. My fear of kiosks is so bad that I go through the McDonald’s drive-thru for Chicken McNuggets and then sneak inside to eat them out of the bag.
(READ MORE: Comparing $5 meals at McDonald’s, Wendy’s and Burger King.)
Last Sunday, I managed to stumble into a situation that felt like a mashup of all my worst fears. I applied for a membership card at Costco, a decision that would test my digital fears, social anxiety and borderline agoraphobia all at once.
It started with a friend who wanted to grab a piece of Costco pizza, and ended with me pondering my future as a functioning human being.
It felt like it would be a productive outing, as I had been wanting to become a Costco customer anyway. But it got off to a bad start.
“Hi, I’m looking for the membership desk,” I chirped to a desk clerk, as my friend pointed up to a sign with 2-foot letters right in front of me that said “MEMBERSHIPS.”
“Oh,” I said. “Sorry.”
Next came a blizzard of requests from the clerk, which, in no particular order, included my name, street address, city of residence, phone number, driver’s license, preferred email and the name of my second-born child.
When you are 67, this kind of grilling starts to feel like a dementia test where the nurse tells you to remember the words “basketball, sandbox and geranium” and then you have to repeat them back to her in 10 minutes. In order.
Next, I asked, almost as an afterthought, how much this was going to cost me.
“One-hundred and thirty dollars,” the clerk said.
It took me a second, but I quickly realized she was upselling me to an “executive” membership on the premise that I looked gullible — not that I resembled an executive.
When I said I would settle for a regular $65 membership, she explained that I was forfeiting 2% cash back on purchases that could be applied to next year’s membership, possibly making my executive upgrade “free.”
“No,” I said.
At this point, I was at least surviving the Costco membership desk, keeping my head above water, when I made a grave error.
“Do you think you will use our app?” the clerk asked.
“Maybe,” I said. “Sure.”
Wrong answer.
“Well, our app is a little wonky, so why don’t I help you?” she said.
“Do I look stupid?” I thought. “Wait, don’t answer that.”
What ensued was a series of smartphone maneuvers that quickly made my head spin. There were passwords with special characters required, secret codes that dinged into my text messages, double taps on the on/off buttons, all while ducking in and out of apps in ways that were a mystery to me.
(READ MORE: Kennedy: My smartphone is trying to hurt me.)
By the time we were done, I had handed the phone to her at least a half dozen times in exasperation. She showed me my digital Costco card, which I immediately vowed to never use.
All I really wanted was a plastic Costco card that I could put in my wallet and use to buy giant packages of toilet tissue and an occasional set of all-terrain tires.
Finally, it was time to have my picture made, a little 20th-century technology that I thought would be a piece of cake.
“Come back here,” the clerk said, motioning me to a blue background on the wall behind the counter. I dutifully walked around the counter and faced the background.
The key words here are “faced” and “background.” I stood there for what seemed like a full minute waiting for further instructions. When I peeked over my shoulder to see what was next, both the clerk and my friend were laughing out loud.
“Um, you need to turn around and face the camera,” the clerk said.
Later, my friend ribbed, “Did you think that piece of blue fabric on the wall was going to take your picture?”
Whatever.
By that time, we were on our way to get the much anticipated Costco pizza slice, which was the original reason for all this silliness.
When we walked up to order food at the counter, no one was manning the register.
“Looks like we’ll have to use the kiosk,” my friend said.
D’oh!
Email Mark Kennedy at mkennedy@timesfreepress.com.