Last Saturday, I got burned again by the coupons. Imagine, if you will, this riveting scene: The cashier at Wal-Mart has rung up my groceries and smugly announces the total. With an air of nonchalance, I hand him three coupons, as a sly rebuttal to what I allegedly owe. I want to say, “Ha! You only think I’m paying $63.49,” but I remain quietly triumphant behind a poker face. The ritualistic Dance of the Coupons has begun. With muscles flexed and forehead raised, I await the counterpunch.
“This one’s expired,” he says flatly, with a coldness one would expect from a seasoned pawn shop dealer. Or a credit union. He’s clearly done this before.
I don’t flinch. Again, I want to say, “Is that all you got?” But he doesn’t know I’m an English teacher, so the menacingly botched grammar would be wasted.
The second coupon doesn’t scan, either. He looks in my bag, and then scans again. This time he frowns and looks up. For a split second, I think he’s bluffing.
Then he goes for the kill. “Did you buy three boxes of Ziploc gallon bags?”
Show no fear, I think to myself. But it’s too late. The color has drained from my face; my hands are clammy. I could have sworn that coupon promised $1 off if I bought only two boxes. Foiled again by fine print.
I steal a glance at the lady behind me. She has tactfully averted her eyes. But I’m sure I see a crumpled coupon fall silently from her hand. She is paralyzed with fear.
It’s of little consolation that the third coupon scans, and the cashier has to deduct 25 cents off my orange-scented Palmolive dishwashing soap. I swipe my bank card and slouch out of the store, crushed. As Randy might have said, I was not in-it-to-win-it. I am the weakest discount link. I have been voted off “Dancing with the Coupons.” And on top of everything else, I’m stuck with an extra 24 Ziploc gallon bags.
What has happened to this world? Why do coupons now have multiple paragraphs of exceptions? Why must I hire a lawyer before I go shopping? Why do I get emails every day from Hewlett-Packard, offering me a $50 rebate on a new computer? Every single day this company thinks I’m going to change my mind and spend $1,500 I don’t have, didn’t budget and couldn’t pay back, just so that I can wait six months for $50, which should be barely enough to cover my bankruptcy paperwork.
There is a reason why retail discounts have become a zero-sum game. It’s all because of those crazy ladies and their coupon overkill.
You’ve seen her. With two shopping carts full and a file cabinet in tow, the couponista descends upon the checkout lane like a one-woman flash mob. Her binders of carefully arranged sale flyers make my nephew’s old Pokemon albums look like amateur Clutterville. This steely-eyed turbo-shopper, armed to the teeth with coupons, is the only person who can strike fear into that heartless cashier who ate my puny coupons for lunch.
True stories: In Maryland a woman buys $2,000 worth of groceries for $100. In St. Louis a mom feeds three children on a monthly food budget of $30. A couponderosa in Idaho attempts 18 different transactions at the same store to maximize her savings.
Welcome to the cult of Extreme Couponing.
These modern-day knights are on a quest for the Holy Grail of free stuff. A part of me wants to cheer for them, as Robin Hood and her Merry Clippers strike a blow for anyone who was ever tricked into buying 80 rolls of Charmin Extra Sensitive toilet paper just to save a buck fifty. Hypothetically speaking, I mean. Oh dear, I’ve said too much.
Anyway, I realize that times are tough and folks are desperate. I’ve seen women who would trade a small child for $3 off on Bertolli Spinach Alfredo dinners. And I concede that some couponzillas go extreme for charity. But for the rest of them, it seems like a game, a stunt to get on reality television. Their houses overflow with 40-pound bags of charcoal, paper napkins by the gross and scattered reams of discounts fresh from the printer. It’s “Extreme Couponing” meets “Hoarders” meets “Real Housewives of White County.”
Meanwhile, the rest of us stand patiently in line, as some fast-talking dame — who has spent 80 hours per week plotting her strategy — tries to convince a dazed cashier that the Kroger across town is giving away Zebra Cakes for free. He believes her, but since I don’t have a flyer, I have to pay $1.59 for mine. It sounds like a couponzi scheme to me.
