I am so ashamed of myself. Not.
A new Target has opened up
mere miles from my house. I don’t even
have to get on the highway to go there; I just pop up the back road I often cut
through, where one of my old jobs used to be, where the foliage is beautiful
right now, where I used to go 4-wheeling (illegally) – and there it is: Target,
all shiny and new.
I go there with a pal, and
my plan is to buy Lysol (it’s flu season at school) and maybe a container for a
plant I need to bring inside soon.
Instead, I come home with new socks, a stack of long-sleeved shirts, a
new mattress pad that I don’t really need, jersey knit sheets with cool orange
stripes, new towels, and a bunch of other random shit, including the Target
brand Lysol knock-off, which smelled much better than the multitude of Lysol
stinkers.
After that my friend and I
decide to hit the hot food “buffet” set up at Whole Foods, something we have
been planning to do since our sons went away to college … four years ago. (The giant meatballs are delicious, and the
quinoa is outrageous.)
I know I should be so
ashamed of myself, but I’m just not.
Now, if you don’t mind, I’m going to put the new sheets on my bed as
soon as they’re out of the dryer.
Damn you, Target, damn you
all the way to my next credit card bill due date.
