Shopping at Target

Or Shooting at Target. I'll take a shot!

After a 4 hour trip to Utah with a 1 year old strapped in his car seat, I was not really looking forward to school clothes shopping with Erika. The time with Erika is great, I just hate shopping. I was pleasantly surprised when she was able to get most of her shopping done in 1 store (Plato's Closet - awesome!) and, before that, even more delightedly shocked when she suggested going to a 2nd hand clothing store (that only carries name brand stuff) to do her shopping. What has happened to this girl? (The short of it is that Erika and I are saving to go to England so she is suddenly thrifty and focused on saving. . again, who is this girl??)

We were ending a successful shopping spree in good spirits, though Hyrum was nearing the very end of his patience, as we headed to Target to find some cheap underclothing for Erika (luckily she isn't into the expensive Victoria stuff, Hanes will do). While Erika was strolling around bras I carted Hyrum through children's clothing, boys clothing, shoes, housewares, anywhere to avoid bras. I hate shopping and I hate shopping for bras even more.

In my meandering I found 3 shirts that I thought I might try on for myself. At this point Erika was in a dressing room so I attempted to go to the wheelchair accessible dressing room to try on the shirts (and let me mention that I have taken a cart into this exact same dressing room before, so it never crossed my mind that I needed permission). A skinny, cutesy, 17ish girl in a flashy red Target vest stops my cart with her hand and in a very authoritative tone tells me that I can't take the cart back there. Huh? My baby is strapped in, I just want to try on 3 shirts. "I'm sorry, it's a fire hazard. You can't take the cart back there."

What crossed my mind to say was:

"If there is a fire in the next 5 minutes and it spreads so fast that I can't get myself out of the dressing room, I release you of any responsibility for me and my child."

OR

"You would rather have my 1 year old climbing underneath the walls of all the dressing rooms, eyeing up naked women?"


OR

"Have you ever attempted to try on clothes with a loose 1 year old in the dressing room with you?"

Instead, my tired body language spoke for me: "Fine, whatever" (with an obvious teenage exhale of air and a not so discreet roll of the eyes). I strolled off, ready to put the shirts back, knowing that I probably wouldn't like them anyway. Instead of putting them back I picked up a couple more shirts while wandering around the women's department next to the dressing room while waiting for Erika.

When Erika returned, I left the cart and baby with her and I once again walked over to the dressing room.

"How many do you have?" the teen asked me.

"Eight."

"You'll have to leave 2 of them here, you can only take six in."

With a firmly set jaw I set down 2 shirts, biting my tongue to stop all of the sarcasm that was ready to spew from my mouth.

I tried on the shirts. It was a stark reminder of why I don't clothes shop for this body at Target. Since when did gauze replace real fabric? I looked like a muffin top stuffed into one thin sheet of Phyllo dough. It was anything but attractive and my self esteem was taking a huge hit looking at my torso suffocating in an "extra large". I'd rather shop the stores that size a little bigger, use fabric thick enough to disguise the previously mentioned muffin top and that let me take more than 6 items into a dressing room.

As I walked out of the dressing room the just-following-the-rules-and-doing-my-job clerk asked "do you want to try on the others?". Not trusting what might come out of my mouth, I shook my head and walked away.

Then I met up with Erika, who had found seven more bras to try on. I sarcastically said, "you'll have to put one back. You can only take six in with you". I told Erika the whole story, to which she marched off toward the dressing room. I couldn't help grinning as she walked away. I knew that I needed to keep my mouth shut to avoid any kind of verbal abuse by a customer to an employee but I let Erika have at it. That to me is just teen warfare and I wasn't in the mood to give any lecture on respect for employees or rules.

"You can only take six of them in with you."

"Would you like me to come out naked to get the other one?"

Pause, stare, glare at the sassy teen before her: "N. . no, but you have to leave it here."

Cheerfully, with a mischievous grin, Erika walked to the dressing room. A few minutes later a spunky Erika came walking toward the clerk with her undershirt on and in all her perky, bouncy glory asked for the other bra.

Score one for the Edwards girls.

I look back on it knowing that I wasn't the best example (ok, no example at all) of patience, charity or respect. Oh well, the power hungry clerk went home with just as good (or bad) of a story to tell as we did. Her version would include the snooty customer with the snot nosed baby and her daughter with total lack of modesty manners (but a really cute body - which she is totally jealous of).