Target Is Holding My $800 Hostage
I just wanted new tank tops.
I woke up on Sunday with an insatiable urge to go shopping. I blame the warm weather, which made me realize that my tanks and Ts from last summer weren’t quite the right size anymore. I needed new ones, STAT.
My boyfriend and I reserved a PhillyCarShare and headed south to the Delaware Avenue Target. We don’t shop together often and I was so excited about my potential purchases that I skipped—literally skipped—from our borrowed blue Impreza to the store’s entrance. Once inside, we each scurried to our favorite sections—clothes and accessories for me, kitchen gadgets for him. When we reconvened an hour later, we grabbed household items like a ginormous bag of dry cat food and one of those ridiculous 12-packs of paper towels.
As we pushed our loaded cart toward the cashier we took bets on how much our bill would be, agreeing that we’d need to split the cost equally. “Ready to stimulate the economy?” I joked. Our checker was a seemingly nice woman wearing the standard red T-shirt. If I’d have known how the afternoon would progress, I’d have bothered to read her name tag.