I guess I'm not a Sam's Club kinda girl. I'm not sure why, but I always imagined the place as a big cement-floored warehouse filled with super-sized boxes. Which is why I felt so out of my element yesterday when I entered our local Sam's.

Why am I going there you ask? Simple. I need to buy a membership for someone else. So, I walk into this enormous building, and it's just like I imagine. Cement floor, wide open spaces, and yes, big boxes everywhere, stacked as high as a serving of Paul Bunyon pancakes. I feel like a third grader at a new school where everyone knows what's what except me.

I take in the whole environment. If I were a gift card, where would I be? After wandering around, I find the membership gift cards located near the check out counters, so I take one from the display and move toward one of the many lines, all of which are snaked clear back to the actual merchandise floor.

I wait patiently, more or less, for a long time. I'm next in line when it hits me. Do I have to be a member to buy someone else a membership card? I'm not certain, but all of a sudden, I'm feeling like there are rules here, and I'm about to break one of them. I snag a young-looking manager (why does everyone look so young these days?), who's rushing past me and ask the question. Yes, you do in fact have to have a membership to buy someone else a membership. Did I mention I've waited a long time already?

My Christmas spirit sinks, and I begin to slip out of the long line. I can almost hear the customers behind me rushing up to take my place. I must have a pout on my face or something, because the manager offers to allow the transaction. I thank him and squeeze back between the two shopping carts just in time. I'm first in line! I feel like I've achieved something here, and almost turn around and wave in excitement. "Hey everybody, I'm first in line!"

The nice manager shows up to give the cashier the Special Membership number. He leaves, and she finishes the transaction, but something is wrong. She's not sure if she's activated the card, and she needs to void out the transacation. By now the manager is halfway across the store--and that's saying something. She calls him back to the register. I hear a lady 4 customer's behind me sigh.

The manager comes back (he's still smiling, though I don't know how) and voids it out, then punches in the Special Membership number again. This time he patiently shows the cashier how to do the transaction. It goes through. I smile too. I swipe my Visa card, see the $35.00 charge on the screen, and prepare to sign. However, something is wrong and the cashier looks at my card and shakes her head. The manager shakes his too. I'm back in 3rd grade and the teacher is telling me I've broken a rule and must go to the principal's office. "We don't take charge cards from that bank."

There's no time to scratch my head and question this strange policy. I'm feeling the pressure from twenty rushed women armed with loaded shopping carts. "Fine, fine, I'll write a check," I say.

The manager and cashier speak simultaneously. "We don't take checks from non-members."

I'm suddenly afraid they're going to send a note home for my mother, and I feel a little anxiety building. I give the young manager a quick look hoping he'll take pity and offer the Special Member number again, but no such luck. "Okay, cash then. " I unzip my wallet and remove all the bills. I quickly count. $31.00. I'm digging through coins now, and that's not easy considering there's a hole in the bottom of my change section that eats quarters, nickles, dimes and pennies. That doesn't stop me, though. I just force my hand through the gaping hole and scrounge around the entire secret interior of my purse. I promise myself I'm going to buy a new purse. Not here, though.

I pull out a fist full of coins, and about the time I hear coins plinking down on the cement floor at my feet, I hear a woman somewhere behind me say, "Why are the shortest lines always the longest?"

I'm also realizing there aren't enough coins in my entire purse to make up the 4 dollars difference. I'm starting to feel a little warm under my turtleneck.

"There's a cash machine at the entrance," the cashier offers.

Ah, thank God. I retrieve my cash card and look back at the Cobra-sized line, which, I swear, is actually hissing at me. The cashier promises me I won't have to wait in line when I come back. But just then the manager notices the Visa emblem on my cash card and tells me I can probably use it right there at the register. I swipe the card, punch in my PIN, and hold my breath.

"Card Accepted" flashes on the screen. I've never been so relieved. Neither have the women behind me. I take my gift card and slink toward the door. I have survived my first day at school--er, Sam's Club, but I don't think I'll be showing my face again around here anytime soon. And something tells me everyone here is just fine with that.