Goodbye, Target, Goodbye...

I often wander aimlessly around the wonderland of mass production. Many hours have been spent contemplating the practicality of stocking up on funny greeting cards while I meander down to the cosmetics aisle. There is peace in the white linoleum tile. The soft glow of fluorescent lights and the gentle breeze of a giant air conditioner bring tranquility to the tired soul. I count on Target for an escape and for a chance to dwell in the anonymity of low-price shopping.

The automatic red doors opened to a world of chaos at my neighborhood Target, Monday evening. The sparkling-plastic floor was replaced with taped off concrete. Red paint was splattered in all the wrong places, while every aisle seemed at least two feet too big. The DVDs were next to the baby clothes, and the pots and pans were adjacent to the make-up. I gasped as I tried to make sense of the horror. "Don't panic," I whispered without moving my lips.

I had four items to make it out alive with: contact solution, lotion, cat toys and one baby present.

The air conditioning was apparently on the fritz, as my sister and I started to realize the baking temperature of Target. I am ashamed to say the heat got to me. The boiling climate made everything a frustration. None of the baby bibs were adorable. No single cat toy was risky enough. All the lotion smelled like glue and the contact solutions looked too itchy.

I could not face my cats one more time without a gift in hand. I grabbed a few cat-nip injected mice as my sister fanned herself with cardboard nail clippers. I walked to the register and threw my disappointment of a purchase onto the flat escalator. I handed a twenty to the boy behind the register, while he applied multiple layers of lotion to his dry hands. Apparently he had trouble opening the shopping bags. This made me uncomfortable.

I could not understand how Target, my green meadow, had turned into a place of anguish. How could they destroy such a blessed place? My sister exclaimed with a intact whine, "A supermarket? Why would Target become a super market?"

It all then became undeniably clear. I wanted to hold Target in my arms and explain that Target needed to accept itself for what it was and did not need to be anything else. I do not need oranges or fresh baked bread from my bull's eyed friend. I needed Target to be the breath of uncomplicated consistency into my life. I needed Target to stay true to itself but alas it did not.

The next day, I hopped into my tiny car and headed for Trader Joe's. The doors opened to a refreshment of dim-lighting and stands of roses and daisies. The carrots, pasta shells and frozen pizzas were in all the places that I had remembered. Not a single item was removed or disordered. All was right in the world, once again.