Target - A Crime of Passion

"Eggs" - the single word scribbled on my yellow Post-it note stared back at me as I walked through the revolving door, the big red sign behind me now; taunting. Why had I even bothered to write it down? While I recognize I struggle with a terrible memory, I'm also confident I can remember a simple carton of Fresh Grade A eggs. It wasn't a reminder of course, but more so a warning as to why I was there that evening. A warning that was essential ever since this Target opened up two blocks from my Chicago apartment only a few months prior.

Then it hit me...an all too familiar scent that filled my cold February nostrils. A scent unlike any other, and one you don't find shopping at Bloomingdale's, Nordstrom's, or any department store for that matter. The signature Target smell; not too sweet and certainly not bitter, just somehow "there" and making its presence known. Do they sprinkle some sort of aroma when opening a new store, almost like a drug to lure consumers in? I have had many theories, but this seems the most reasonable of all: Drug sprinkled carpet.

I tried to keep my eyes locked to the tiled floor as I headed to the produce department, but the spring line of swim suits and colorful tee's were impossible to ignore in my peripheral vision. I quickly veered right, feeling slightly defeated but instead took a step of confidence and told myself- "you can DO this!" It had been two years since I'd moved from Minneapolis to Chicago. Now, as exciting as it was to move to the big city and pursue fashion design school, it still wasn't easy to give up Target as this was a rarity in the city. On the up side, I had literally saved thousands of dollars with this move; $50 a week, 4 times a month, 12 months a year, I'd tell you to do the math but I just did it for you.

Before I knew it, my hands were full of colorful cotton and I debated going back for a cart. A must-have olive green cardigan, fuchsia cotton racer-back tank, gray cropped Converse sweatshirt, and the list goes on. A sudden bolt of guilt came over me as my thoughts faded back to the evening before. My boyfriend Chad and I were sharing our favorite Michael's pizza and pitcher of beer. He proceeded to say how proud he was of my recent saving habits, being more aware of spending and tracking, and making sacrifices to build my fashion dreams. He understood the importance of saving, and had gently been encouraging me to recognize the same for my own benefit. I wanted to drop everything, but instead I rushed to the nearest fitting room, hoped nothing would fit and I'd walk out of the store with a lonely carton of eggs.

As I slipped into the the racer-back tank, I started to think of excuses, such as my recent decision to go from blonde to red, and the need to update ones wardrobe when taking on a new hair color. I then shifted my thoughts to the hiding places around my apartment, and how I'd layer the clothes with hopes he wouldn't notice. But Chad was too smart, too aware, and he noticed everything. If he didn't, I'd of course likely accuse him of being insensitive and not caring.

The verdict was in - the garments fit perfectly and already seemed to have a special place in my closet. I walked home with fist fulls of plastic bouncing in the wind. Once inside, I carefully cut the tags and tossed my new garments in the washer. It was as if I was cleansing myself of the fashion crime I'd committed moments before, washing away the guilt but also coming to terms with acceptance of my new garments because once washed, I could return nothing.

I sat down on the couch with the washer lightly drumming in the background, coming down from that Target high and suddenly realized, of course, I had forgotten the damn eggs.