I have a confession to make. Even though it’s nice and quiet and because it’s such I should stay here, at my desk, writing, I really want to go to Target.
I haven’t been there, for a leisurely stroll through the makeup department or an unhurried oohing and aahing over the brightly colored baubles in the jewelry section or a relaxed caressing of the faux leather but still luxe looking 
desk chair in the Magnolia Collection since Jesus invented the Jesus sandal. Which I remember because I picked up a pair.
Ok, it probably hasn’t been that long, but it feels like it.
I love Target. Target makes me happy. All the pretty, shiny packaging, the happy colors, the bins and nooks and crannies that merchandising geniuses have sprinkled throughout the store – petite, enticing lairs bursting with sample size packets of magic skin serums or collections of multi-hued (acrylic!) margarita glasses or assortments of chunky pens and coordinating notecards or stacks and stacks of OPI mini packs of “summer-perfect” polishes and bowls of fluffy socks bedecked with the words “If you can read this, bring me wine” on the bottom.
Oh Target, I miss you so. And yet, you know what’s crazy? I don’t even need to buy anything when I’m there. I’m happy looking, imagining, staring longingly at a 16-piece ceramic dinnerware set or an arrangement of bath towels or a pair of hanging egg chairs, planning an entire remodeling around them, even pledging my undying love, and leaving them there.
It occurs to me that, for the most part, I walk through Target like it’s a museum, a really fun museum staffed by security guards who don’t escort you out if you touch the displays (unlike those big meanies at the Metropolitan Museum of Art who seriously overprotect those sixteenth-century British teapots) and filled with treats and temptations and zillions of white tee shirts. Oh how I love white tee shirts. I wear them alone. I wear them under sweaters. I even wear them over long-sleeved cotton tees when I don’t look like I just swallowed Lake Superior.
But I digress.
Oh Target, you are my happy place. I must go and pay you a visit. And maybe, if I caress your brightly packaged snake oils and pledge my undying love to your patio furniture, I’ll get you out of my system.
And if that doesn’t work, I’ll be back. With my laptop. That faux leather but luxe looking desk chair goes with the sweetest little light-colored desk and really, sitting there could help this writer return to writing. And while it’s possible security will stop me from setting up camp in the Magnolia Collection, I really hope they won’t. Particularly if I promise not to touch any teapots.
