You may wonder why this is a big deal. If you do, then you are probably not a parent. A typical trip to Target when you have kids starts with whining for Starbucks hot cocoa, continues with desperate grabs for My Little Pony plush, and ends in a full body meltdown when all entreaties to buy every single Skylander figure is denied.
An expedition to Target with kids is yeoman’s work and I am usually sapped of all energy when I leave.
But today was different.
Upon entering, I noticed the great red bullseye glowed brightly overhead. It sang to me a melody of peace and joy as I selected the cart that I wanted, not the unwieldy two-seated monster my daughter begs for and then uses for a solid five minutes.
Marching toward the dollar section, I make the stunning realization that I don’t have to walk up and down those aisles debating the merits and virtues of Frozen socks versus Barbie sandwich keepers.
Of course, I enter the land of cheap anyway, because it’s obvious I need to stock up on $1 gift bags, hand lotion that smells like plastic, and animal crackers. The frosted ones.
Tearing myself away from the Panda cookies, I spy a My Little Pony stationery set for The Girl and Ninja Turtles lunch accessories for The Boy. I squee with delight, because the kids would LOVE them. Actually, my daughter would also love the cheap Elsa headband, Palace Pets puzzle, the ratty felt fox, and broken basket on the bottom shelf. But, since she’s not there, I DON’T CARE.
Tossing my cheap goodies into the cart, I find myself inexplicably drawn to the women’s clothing section. I only have vague notions of what this couture wonderland contains as it’s usually passed in a blur of voices crying out, “This isn’t the toy section! It’s so boring!”
Instead of bidding the cotton confections adieu, I stroll leisurely past the clothing racks, fingering the items that are 50, and even 70, percent off. Sighing with joy, I find a striped, long-sleeved shirt on sale for $6. It’s such a good deal, I could buy two, and have a little left over for pants. Not wanting to get too crazy, I hold myself back and promise to come back for the striped shirt’s friends when I can get another day away.
Hide yourself sweet distressed jeans, mama’s coming for you soon.
I make my way over to the other part of Target that is forbidden with children; the lingerie section. I could walk through there on a typical shopping outing, but then I have my son trying bras on his head or listening to him and my daughter snicker at the sight of thong underwear. “Where’s the rest of it?!?”
Sadly, I have been known to ask myself the same question.
Bypassing a few choice items from the Gillian O’Malley hooker collection, I ogle some underwear whose comfort is masked by lace and a modest bow. I love a sexy pair of pantaloons, but for day-to-day wear, I need something that I can wear for longer than an hour that won’t rub my ladyland raw.
It’s the little things in life that make me happy, like an un-chafed vagina.
Of course the comfiest britches are on racks that face the aisle, so I get to stand in the middle of Target rubbing my paws all over silky underwear to find my size. Nothing to see here folks, just a lady fondling the crotch covers.
Floating through row after heavenly row, I savor the scent of those weird little soy candles, imaging where I’d put them and then remember that they would sit there and get dusty before I’d light them; planning parties that would need star pinatas, of which there should be none because those things make an ungodly mess; and eventually I wind up in the $5 movie section trying to talk myself into Scrooged because I loved that movie at one time, and IT’S ONLY FIVE DOLLARS! How many people can buy happiness for $5? Me! I can!
My time at Target comes to an end, and I even enjoy the checkout line. No one begs for Pokemon cards or Snickers bars, and I get to make pleasant chit-chat with the teenage checker.
Walking out, I let the majesty of the big red bullseye wash over me. Target is my motherland, and it is even better when I get to savor each and every nuance all on my own. It’s better than sex, I tell you, and no one can ever tell me differently.
Viva solo shopping!