I drive the car to Target. SuperTarget, with the grocery section that has motion-sensor lights on the freezer cases. I like to go down aisles, just to watch the cases light up in anticipation of my presence.
I can’t stop loving Target, even though everything about it goes against my local/non-mass-produced sensibilities. I walk in the entrance with good intentions – I will shop judiciously, and remember that great prices and well executed, tiny details are usually thanks to a workforce of oppressed seven year olds somewhere in Asia – but as soon as I hit the discount bins my mind and morals take leave of my body, not to be seen again until I leave with four feet of receipt in hand. At which time they are ushered back by my old friends, regret and shame. Right up until that moment, I’m a spectacle of greed and first world arrogance.
I impulse shop my way from entrance to exit, with all the frothy, glassy-eyed fervor of a rabid animal. Only happier. If you were to cross Kujo with Richard Simmons, staple a ponytail on its head and dress it in a trucker’s hand-me-downs – that would be me in Target. An hour later I emerge, blinking like a blind mole rat that’s just been thrust beneath a 4,000-watt lightbulb, pushing the Mt. Crumpet of shopping carts into the parking lot. Where I set off in search of the minivan.
Ten minutes passes… I’m still looking for the minivan. Wheeling my tottering, wobbling pile of stuff-I’ve-already-forgotten-buying, trying to look as though I know exactly what I’m doing – like walking in big, looping circles around the Target parking lot at noon on a Saturday is precisely what I’d planned for my weekend – I look. And look. And look and look and look.
I think I see it one time, but I’m wrong. I figure it out after I load my third bag in the back and suddenly realize that the inside of this van is clean. Seriously, people, it’s a good thing I’m an honest person. If you have a clean minivan, you lock that sucker. You’re lucky I don’t go buy myself a sleeping bag and move in.
Another ten minutes, and I’m getting frantic. I reach for my back pocket to call Nick and tell him I can’t find the minivan, and it possibly may have been stolen, and I found this other one that’s clean and nice and I bet the people don’t even really want it that bad and maybe I can just borrow it for a little while. But all I get is a handful of my own rear end.
My iPhone. It’s gone.
Now it’s panic time. I cry a little but that’s okay, because in all honesty what I want to do is wail and beat my chest and throw myself in front of a passing vehicle. So really I’m a model of self-restraint.
I don’t know what to do. I don’t even think they make pay phones anymore. How do people communicate when they lose their cell phones? Morse code? Smoke signals? Hell if I know.
Just as I’m about to wheel my gargantuan pile of stuff back into Target in hopes of finding a phone, I see it.
Ohhhhh. That’s right.
I didn’t drive the minivan to Target.
I drove the car.
The same car I’ve just spent 25 minutes walking enormous laps around.
I open my purse to get my keys. They’re cozied up against my iPhone. Slutty Siri. Doesn’t she know how dirty keys are?
My inner voice mocks my tears, says, Are you really crying over this? That you “almost” lost your overpriced phone and couldn’t find vehicle #1 because you drove vehicle #2? Don’t you know there are starving people in China, you pampered fool?
What China needs is SuperTarget. I bet their prices would be seriously off the hook, seeing as how the workforce would be local.