It seems fitting that I am in a store known for its bullseye, considering that the only thing in my crosshairs right now is the restroom sign on the opposite side of what I consider to be a fair substitute for heaven.
We’re in a love-hate relationship. I love the all-in-one convenience of this bright and cheery wonderland, but I hate the relationship it has with my bank account. I never manage to get in and out in less than 50 minutes and without losing Ben Franklin and a few of his friends along the way. Today, however, might be the exception.
Target is my Tiffany, a dazzling display of treasures where, yes, I can have breakfast courtesy of that saucy little siren from Portland that likes her morning grinds. But today coffee is off limits. So is breakfast.
I am, however, allowed to have water. And four entirely evil little pills. And a lovely potion designed to polish my intestinal track to the point where it shines.
I’ve been given an early ticket on a ride that makes grown men weak in knees. A ticket I would rather not cash in, but that two young children who have already lost half of the parental equation compel me to redeem.
After memorizing the texture of the baseboards and listening to the unabated mayhem erupting down the hallway, a window of opportunity opened up. And like Holly and her little blue boxes, I simply had to surround myself with bottles of sparkly water. All I needed was 20 minutes and a quickly negotiated truce in the toy aisle. But I underestimated my children. And my temporary lack of intestinal fortitude.
And I am certain that Holly didn’t drink GoLytely for breakfast.