Dammit, Target, isn’t life hard enough? Do you have to make things even harder with such unflattering lighting in your dressing rooms?
Probably the most painful part about this is that you know you have my heart and soul. Sure, I’ve messed around with Wal-Mart once or twice, but you’re my boo, Target.
You know me. You know I will buy a whole new bathroom accessory collection just because you put it on an endcap. You know I don’t have to pester your Target Team Members with questions like, “Where are the back-to-school supplies?” or “If I were in the market for a pumpkin carving kit, where would I find that?” BECAUSE I KNOW THEY ARE IN SEASONAL LAND IN THE NORTHEAST CORNER OF THE STORE. BECAUSE WE’RE TIGHT LIKE THAT, TARGET.
Oh, you bet I have a red card. You know it, baby. I get a small charge looking at “How much I’ve saved, to date” after every purchase, ignoring “How much I’ve spent to get to that number.” I’ve written about how you drive me wild, Target; about how I lose all control when I’m around you.
That is why it hurts so badly to think that you just don’t give a crap about how I look in your dressing rooms.
It’s like all of your charm and wooing ends the moment I’m handed a plastic number between 1 and 7 so I BRING THEM ALL BACK. And then… shudder…I enter the Hallway of Indecent Lighting, littered with the wreckage of non-standard plastic hangers. The squeaky red door opens to the Body Image Nightmare Capsule. My shopping guest sits on the only plastic cylinder backless red tube-chair known to man.
Where only moments before, I was bopping along, feeling worthy of all the things in my cart: those colorful tights, the ingenious spice caddy, and the bean bag I always wanted as a kid, but just never thought I could have until today...
...and now I am suddenly face-to-face with a sullen, pasty skinned woman with bags under her eyes and questionable levels of iron in her blood. Long shadows are cast downward from her midriff. The flicker from above is an almost-green shade of yellow. I begin to hate everything, and wonder why God’s design punishes women who love Snickers bars.
Target, I am not a business woman. America would not be a capitalist society if everyone had my brain. We’d all be bartering with wool scraps and ritalin, and saying, “I’ll get you back, I promise.” That said, even someone like me knows that you could be making a LOT more money in women’s clothing if you pampered us a bit more in the dressing room. Maybe you could put as much energy into making us look desirable in your clothes as you do making dinner plates look desirable on shelves?
I think it’s in the lighting, Target. Your lighting is the stuff of Haunted Houses, and your mirrors belong in a Fun House at a dodgy carnival. I don’t ever look as fatigued, fat and dimply as I do in your dressing rooms. I know I’m not alone. I can’t get out of there fast enough. The inspiration to try a different size is obliterated by the thought of spending one more minute with that she-beast in the mirror.
We are women who love you, Target. Treat us as such. In a world gone mad, I just have to believe that this matters, too.
That is my piece, and that is my peace. Thank you for taking the time to read my silly words. It means the world. Carry on...
Old Single Mom
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