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Like a large majority of the population in this country, I have a problem, a codependent relationship. His name is Target, and we can’t quit each other. It wouldn’t be so much of a problem if you took out the financial ruin aspect of our relationship. Yes, Target takes, takes, takes… but it gives so much more. When I manage to sneak a solo trip in, I am actually a happier person, a better ‘Me’ you could almost say. All the negativity of the world washes away. It is replaced by rows of colorful handbags and scarfs I don’t need, by an aisle dedicated entirely to travel coffee mugs, by joyful racks of clearance treasures.  

I saw a meme posted on facebook recently about a mom’s ideal heaven being a secret apartment above target, with wine on tap and a netflix account. It’s true. I not only agreed, but being the over thinker that I am, I started to actually plot logistics. Would this be my permanent home, or more of a getaway? If permanent would my husband and children also live there? It might not be such a peaceful retreat with them there. My daughter would insist on bringing up half the toy department and a million juice boxes. My husband would drink my wine and not replace empty containers. So no, not my main residence. Would I just spend time there occasionally? Could I get away with telling my husband I’m working overtime while enjoying my private haven? I realized I was thinking too much into it, so then let’s just say all the logistics were figured out and I was there, in my secret hideaway. I could stroll the store, mocha frappuccino in hand (because I would only choose a target with a Starbucks in it), I would try on clothes. All of them. I would take the time to pick matching jewelry and handbags for each outfit. There might even be time to browse the book section. I would need something to peruse while sipping on my wine back in the apartment later right?

Surely there would be enough time to properly choose the perfect bra. I could take the time to look at all of them, feel the material, compare different styles, colors… My shopping is usually an hour of running after my 2 year old while lugging my now 21 pound 9 month old in a baby wear carrier. It’s a mad dash in the same pattern I always run though: Enter, Buy juicebox for toddler and try to bribe her to sit in the cart, go though baby section for wipes/diapers/baby food etc, pass by movie section if hubby made a dvd request, let screaming toddler who finished juice out of cart, chase her as she sprints towards the toy section, drag her away from toy section, soothe baby after toddler’s screaming scared him, quickly grab a few random food and drink items while trying to keep toddler from grabbing glass jars of sauce, do a quick run past to the cleaning supplies and paper towels, then straight to the register. EVERY TIME.

This is why the idea of my own apartment above Target is beautiful to me, like a dream you know you can/will never accomplish, but it’s so nice to imagine it. Just thinking about it makes me a little happier, living vicariously through pretend me. Someday Target…. someday.

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