Bullseye

So, Mr. Bluebird of Happiness insisted on seeing me today--exactly one day after we met. He started sending me text messages this afternoon, begging to get together. When I got home, he sent me an urgent text reading, "when will you be available? I'd love to see you this evening."

I reply, "around 6:30" and ask him what he would like to do.

He says--wait for it... wait for it,--"I'll be at the Target on..." with directions.

Yes, dear reader, after two days of insisting on seeing me again, for our first "date," he chooses Target.

Now, here's the deal: I like Target. At some point in my distant past, I worked at Target. I go to Target on my off-days to walk around. There's something very comforting about wandering around Target, pushing a red shopping cart, mindlessly perusing the clearance back aisles and looking for sale signs. Target radiates good-old-fashioned American capitalism testesterone at its best.

But, when I think Target, I don't think date. However, as Rule #2 clearly states that I'll go on one first date of the man's choosing--no matter where as long as my personal safety is not violated--I went to Target.

I get there about 6:40 pm, swiftly jump into my comfort zone and grab a red cart. He meets me in the main aisle, somewhere between slow cookers and aspercream. Genial, he smiles and we push carts together, up and down the aisles, while I hunt for lesser known items like tea steepers and an encapusulated garlic press. Our eyes lock over a box of Tampax tampons. Our souls connect in electronics. We share an electrifying touch near the extension cords.

Except none of that really happened. We were in Target, for goodness sake.

At the end of the day, the reality is, I felt like I was shopping in Target, with some random guy walking behind me. Here's the deal, Target is not the place to get to know someone. It is impersonal. The one place to sit--the food court--reeks of bleach and hot dog grease. The light is bright and harsh.

After I purchased a disposable cell phone for the rest of this experiment and check out, he suggests that we keep talking, by sitting in his car.

Yeah, that's not like the beginning of the last thirty-seven Lifetime movies I watched. After I clearly state that we are not going to sit in his car to "talk," he offers my car. Again, the answer is a resounding no. So, we stand outside for about 10 minutes, conversing in between our respective vehicles--where he once again compliments my mouth.

And,...scene.

Evelyn Parkide

PS--after I left Target, I took myself for sushi.