Small Town Dispatch: I Made Some Friends at Target

    This weekend's big event was a trip to Target, just to soak up its central AC.  That I get to touch aesthetic objects hypnotically aimed at my demographic is a bonus. Did I almost buy another weird, not-quite-plastic, no-quite-ceramic-vase this weekend? Yes, almost. I also wandered through the lingerie, the jewelry, the electronics, the window treatments, and even spent some time amongst the nervous college students and their parents by the command strips.

    As I transitioned from birthday cards to cosmetics, a tiny girl plopped in her mom's cart rolled by, tears streaming down her face. Taking a deep breath, she asked her mom, "But why can't we get everything I want?"  

    'Why?' indeed! Her mom started to explain the concept of money to her, and I took myself over to the skincare aisle to waste some of my own. That girl was a good reminder that I shouldn't get everything I wanted at the Target. The longer I spend in there, the harder that is to remember, especially amongst the pastel packaging of the cosmetics aisle. I did end up buying a cooling body spray, if you're curious. It really is too hot.

Photo by Carolyn Carter

     In the checkout line, the woman behind me cleared her throat.

    "Ma'am?"

    It always takes me a second to respond to this. I still expect everyone in public to call me 'Miss' or 'little girl' or just shout out to the room, 'who's lost their teenager? She's over here.' But the gorgeous woman in the neon terrycloth dress was speaking to me. 

    "Do you want to put your things into my cart?" She gestured to the basket hanging off the crook of my arm. "I can see you hefting that case, go ahead and put them in."

    This sort of kindness, of keeping an eye on how to help those around you, defines this town I live in. And the gorgeous lady was right on the money. It turns out lugging a case of cans across a target for an hour can make you sore the next day. Or at least make me sore the next day, which I'm choosing to believe is a universal experience and has nothing to do with my spaghetti arms.

    At the register, the cashier flipped over the bralette once, twice, then held it in both hands and stared it down. I noticed it didn't have a tag when I pulled it off the rack, but it was the only one in my size, so I took note of the price of the rest of the bralettes and tossed it into my basket. I opened my mouth to tell her, "twelve ninety-nine," but she beat me to it. 

    "Five bucks," she said with a shrug. And that was that. Given how there was not a single item available for five dollars in the Target intimates department, she had to know she was giving me a discount. We smiled at each other. I turned back and smiled at the woman who let me use her cart. Then I left the Target.