I don’t really understand why I love Target but hate Walmart. It’s not worth the time it would take to psychoanalyze the situation, but the fact remains that I love Target. If I were blindfolded and led into the store, I’m pretty sure I could tell the difference between Target and Walmart by smell alone. Target is usually associated with Starbucks, which is conveniently located near the front door, so the first thing to note is the comforting aroma of coffee beans and whipped cream-topped macchiatos. Passing Starbucks, you’ll no doubt find the Target café, which always offers popcorn, pizza, big soft pretzels and Cherry Coke. Maybe it’s the bright red color motif or the wide aisles that attract me. Or it could be that I hardly ever have to wait in line to check out. It’s the happy place. But I really think there’s some sort of gravitational pull or witch dance ring that just draws us. Maybe it’s that mesmerizing red circle atop every Target. I wish I knew.
On a recent visit, my husband asked if I brought my list, and I said “What list? Who needs a list?” The fact is that Target speaks to you. You really don’t need a list, as you just push a buggy along and listen for directions, obediently popping items into the cart that are not at all what you had in mind when you entered. It’s amazing how that happens. On my visit last week, I picked up a National Geographic magazine on medieval history, a bag of Hershey’s mint-flavored chocolate kisses, a box of night light bulbs, a mixing bowl, birdseed, matches, and some dog treats. And I needed every bit of that. That was just Aisles 1-8. I still had 15 to go so you can imagine what I actually left with.
You can even find a Target if you are in an unfamiliar city, with little to no assistance. My daughter, who is attending Oklahoma State University, drove over an hour to find the nearest Target, and knew she was getting close when she saw a Chick Fil-A, followed by an Ulta, and then Five Guys Burgers. Target keeps the same friends just about everywhere it lands. She is truly her mother’s daughter, as the trip to Target was a treat she gave herself on her birthday. An hour’s drive across the windswept Oklahoma plains is a girl on a mission.
Walmart is more utilitarian. I go there only if I’ve exhausted all other possibilities. If you need packing boxes or garden fertilizer or motor oil, I suppose that’s your best option, but only if all else fails. I think what bothers me most about Walmart is the huge fans that blow through the entrance foyer and the obligatory hello that is expected as you greet the greeter. And then there are the narrow aisles that are almost always cluttered with people who only see each other at Walmart and who must stop dead in the tracks to visit. Any store where you really should have turn signals on the cart to be safe is a bit much for me. No pleasing Starbucks aroma and no softly whispering products subliminally advising you to take them home. And the parking lot! Don’t get me started.
I’ve always liked most big “everything” stores. Growing up, that meant Kmart or Grants, or on a smaller scale, TG&Y. My grandmother shared that enthusiasm; when she stayed overnight, it always meant a trip to Grants for dish towels or fabric or underwear—and always something for me, like conversation hearts or a Milky Way. We lost my grandmother and Aunt Evie at TG&Y once and found them sitting in the back seat of the wrong car in the parking lot. Well, it did look a lot like ours.
My best friend and I pretty much grew up in Kmart, or at the bowling alley in the front parking lot of Kmart. We’d bowl on Friday night, spend the night at her house, and then be chauffeured by her mom back to Kmart on Saturday morning to make goofy pictures in the photo booth and to pick up a few 45 rpm records and cheap jewelry and David Cassidy posters. Funny, I could have sworn that was a lot more fun than it sounds now.
My affinity for those stores is hereditary, I think. My father can describe in detail the rolling store that used to pass by the farm. It had chicken coops hanging off the back to simplify the collection of chickens that farmwives might trade for dry goods. While the rolling store owner took a lunch break, he would often let my dad hang out in the truck bed to examine the merchandise. For a few years, Daddy’s dream was to own a rolling store. It’s a good thing he decided accounting had a bit more future.
I know Amazon is happy to deliver just about anything I might want, overnight and with no shipping charges. But where is the sport in that? The thrill of the hunt is to grab that little red buggy and just see where it leads you. The problem is that it always ends with the checkout. And that’s where the rubber meets the road. But they even give you a magic Red Card that takes care of that. And the best thing is it’s tied to my husband’s account. The one who thinks I might need a list.
