Target is my Tiffany’s.
Which is a weird thing to read, I’m sure, if you’re not familiar with the inner workings of the cinematic classic I have referred to on the blog regularly, Breakfast at Tiffany’s. At some point in the film, Holly GoLightly lets us know she heads to Tiffany’s when she’s anxious. It calms her down right away. And “nothing very bad could happen to you there.”
And this is what Target does for me. It’s silly, I know. But I’ve come to view my inexplicably frequent trips there as therapy. Self care.
You could even get yourself coffee in a paper cup, and a pastry of some kind in a paper bag, and eat it while you look at the goods.
You could sport her getup too, you might get a few side eyes, but oh well. I might just do that one of these days. Maybe skip the gloves though, because, desert.
It’s not a shopping addiction, though I know it must seem that way. Sometimes I go there just to look. (Granted I do end up getting something, but it’s often small and not even for me.) I will take pictures of things I want to remember later. Or I will find them on Amazon and add them to my cart to buy later. Or I will just admire them.
I live five minutes from a Target now. But even in San Francisco, where I had to drive 20 minutes to the suburbs to go (or go to City Target which is adorable and all, but not a replacement), I was still there a few times a week.
How can I explain it? It just makes the world seem right. It feels like I’m in a box of happiness and nothing bad can penetrate. Even though this is America, and this is 2018 after all, and of course bad things could happen there. But it feels like they won’t. And that’s the key. When I am walking around in this world thinking something bad will happen at any moment, take me by surprise and change my life forever, it’s nice to have a place to go where it feels like all of that gets checked at the door. Time moves a little slower, ergo so does my brain.
And because I cashiered for so many years (even a stint as a Target cashier no less) I feel confident using the self-checkout. I don’t even have to deal with people if I don’t want to.
I know the employees know me now. And I see some of them smirk when they don’t think I notice. But that’s ok. I am making myself feel better which is a huge accomplishment most days, so they can think I’m a nut. At least I’m not the lady who has loud, violent fights about “that girl you was with last night” with who she claims is Invisible Jesus (true story). (See, if you hang out there enough you get some good stories.)
Do you find yourself retreating somewhere when you’re in a funk? Somewhere outside your house I mean?