Dear Sexy Man In Target,
It was like any other typical Tuesday. I was out of paper towels, patience, and craving a little something sparkly. Target always does me right, and I needed a fix — I could tell it does the same for you. I saw how you walked briskly over to the dishes, holding a sweet little girl’s hand — you were a man on a mission. It was obvious you know kids have an expiration date in Target and you had to get it done.
Your movements told me you are an experienced shopper and, honestly, it made me weak in the knees.
As you stopped cold in the housewares section, I figured I might as well get a little closer. After all, I can always use another stemless wine glass, marble cutting board, or table runner. I spotted the colorful ink tattooed down your arm (hello!), and it made me pick up my pace a little. I never chase after a man, but will certain things make me pick up my pace a bit when I’m intrigued?
You bet your ass.
You were sexy but not “hey ladies, look at me and my sexiness” sexy. You seemed modest, humble.
When I saw you pick up a white platter (come to mama, I have such a thing for white dishes), I wanted to tell you about my collection, but figured it would seem too obvious, desperate even. I mean, you don’t go up to a total stranger and strum up a conversation about your love for big white plates. I’d probably say something stupid like, “Hi, if you like that platter now, you should see it with my amazing baked goods spread all over it.”
Clearly, I’m not good at this trying to pick a man thing.
Besides, I didn’t have a clear view of your left hand yet, and I wanted to make sure I didn’t just have my Target goggles on — that store has a way of turning everything into rainbows and gumdrops– it was too soon to approach.
I decided to just admire you from afar and pretend I needed the three bags of the Baked Lay’s I threw into my cart.
That sweet little girl you were with was patiently waiting for you to finish looking at the dishes which tells me you come here often (marry me).
As you grabbed a stack of white square plates (let’s decorate a house together and live there forever), I noticed your left hand was free of a ring.
I can do this.
I walked closer totally thinking I was going to open my mouth and say something to you. But instead, I just kept walking.
When our eyes met across the utensils, and we both bit down on our Starbuck’s straws as I passed by, I got butterflies, which quickly made me feel like I might hurl. It was sexy and scary and intimidating. I wanted to make out with you and run away at the same time.
I realized as I was checking out, if we are meant to kiss in aisle 6, build a house, decorate it with all things Target, and sit and eat lasagna on our square white dishes, it will happen on its own.
As I was loading my bags into my cart, I had a fantasy about going to a Mexican restaurant together, having one too many margaritas, then going on a shopping frenzy in Target some Friday night.
When I turned around as I walking out the door, I saw you at the Dollar Spot — you were watching me — but then I rammed my cart into the side of the automatic doors. I wanted to run into your arms, but knew the moment had passed.
So, I proceeded to my car and drove away.
Oh, I wish I had said something to you while you had your tattooed arms loaded down with dishes. I cursed myself for not knowing how to wink and second-guessed my inaction. Maybe I should have turned around and acted like I forgot something.
Instead, I crunched down a whole bag of Baked Lay’s on my way home.
Maybe I’ll never see you again. Maybe I will. No matter what happens, we will always have that moment in Target.
But just be aware, if I see you in there again, and you are caressing a pillow, it’s on.
The woman who’s sorry she let you get away.
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