Remember those great Judy Blume young adult books?  I checked out the one about Margaret awaiting her period from the library about a thousand times.  Looking back on that book now, I can so relate to the waiting, the wondering.  Except in my case, it’s not the waiting for my period.  I got that about 26 years ago, and that’s what’s gotten me to the more important waiting I’m doing now.  

I’m waiting–and praying–for the day I can go to Target.  Alone.

When I can, the first thing I’ll do (after I tell all my friends about it and they beg me for all the gory details), is go browse the bra the undies section.  And browse, I will.  I will pluck every single bra off the rack and hold it up to my chest, read its label, and perform a material-feel check, just because I can.  And then I’ll take another hour to try them all on. I will not spend my time there picking up and rehanging forty bras that little hands have strewn along the aisle, or chase small people out from under racks of underwires, or shush little-boy shrieks of, “Mommy, these are for your boobies!”

After I’m done QC-ing all the underthings, I’ll shuffle over to the sunglasses section and try on every pair.  I need a few new ones now because my last two were thrown on the ground at the zoo and run over with the stroller, and stretched out until they snapped in half.  Not by me.

Moving on, I’ll grab a coffee at the food bar without even looking at the snack bag rack and cold juice box display, then head to the media section, where I’ll read every single magazine and newspaper cover-to-cover.  I will read for comprehension and finish every sentence the first time, even if it’s about poor Brit or silly Posh, just because I’m actually reading.  I’ll relish the muted house muzak in the background as opposed to the elevated, “Mommy!  He’s eating my yogurt!” background noise at my house. 

Then, I will go try on clothes.  I might even buy some, since I think the last time I bought anything new was 1963.  Oh wait, I wasn’t born yet.  It just seems like it’s been that long.  Say what you want about a woman who fantasizes about buying clothes at Target; they make good enough stuff and if I can do that in the same store I get my coffee drunk and my reading done, well, good for me.

Of course, I’ll follow all this up with a trip over to women’s shoes, where I will try on several pair and stand very still in them, instead of trying to run in the damn things, tripping over those bloody elastic shoe-attacher bands while chasing cackling little boys up and down the aisles.

On the way out after 8 hours with my overflowing cart(s), I will bypass the toy department (actually, in my ideal Target experience, there would be no toy department), the Pokemon card display, the diaper section, the birthday party aisles, and the toy department (did I already say that?).   

And I will be a good girl, and use my manners, and be nice to my brother.  Please, God?

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Pre-children, I was a mall-rat. I used to love clothes. Not just clothes, I loved jewelry, purses, perfume, shoes – all that girly shit. I could spend hours, even days at the mall. My fantasy was being locked in a mall overnight, Bloomingdales or Nordstrom preferably, with access to dressing rooms without waiting.

So how did I go from looking forward to trying on clothes and flipping through Vogue to find out what the latest trends were for the upcoming season. Now, that’s like the last thing I want to do. It’s synonymous with chewing class and drinking urine. So not fun. So not interesting. In the words of Avril Lavigne, it’s so whatever!

All of this is fine and good. Our priorities change. Our lifestyles change. It is just not that important to look like you don’t have kids. Who are we, as moms, trying to impress anyway?

…and why do I loathe shopping for clothes so much?

Well, for starters…

1. It takes time. A lot of time. Time I don’t have.
2. It takes brain-power. It hurts my brain trying to keep up with whether or not I can wear black and brown together this season. What fabrics go with what? Am I too old or young for this shirt or these pants?
3. It’s expensive. Unless I agree to pay a babysitter a small fortune to watch my children, just for the luxury of spending a large fortune on clothes, I will have to make split-decision fashion choices and right now, I don’t trust my dated fashion sense.
4. Clothes don’t fit me the way they used to. Although I have worked hard to shed some of those unwanted pounds, my body has changed for better and for worse. Even with my weight loss success, I still cannot wear the same size I did pre-children. Women’s clothes, especially jeans, are designed for the bodies of girls stuck in little boy’s bodies. It just seems like a colossal waste of time to try things on and that are too tight, way too long (like every pant and jean) or need to be tailored to the point that you might as well invest in custom clothing.
5. Why bother? All dressed up and nowhere to go. Sometimes I lose my motivation to even care. I tend to gravitate towards those cropped cotton pants and long wife-beaters. What’s comfortable seems luxurious now (all those young girls, you just don’t get it) and reminds of the weekends. I like weekends. I’m talkin’, things that can hold up to a fudgescicle handprint. Although I do have to dress up for work, those clothes are not as comfortable as my updated leisure suits.

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One of my fondest memories of Christmastime as a kid was not even close to Christmas Day, but rather around Thanksgiving — that was the time when the giant toy catalog would come in the mail. Upon its arrival, my task was to go through and find the toys I wanted and write them on a list to be sent to Santa Claus (c/o The North Pole). The catch was that I could only pick 10 finalists, of which Santa would peruse them and determine which one was to be America’s Next Top Toy.

At 6 years old this was one of the most important decisions of my life, and I put more thought into it than the Nobel Institute picking its prizewinners. I spent days sitting at the desk in my bedroom, poring over the catalog pages. I would frantically circle items, scratch others out, dog-ear corners, prioritize, and overflow my wastebasket with crumpled up piles of list rejects. After final deliberation, I would carefully fold the list and place it into its awaiting stamped and addressed envelope and finally emerge, weary and barely able to lift my arm and present the list to my mother. She would smile, put the envelope in her purse, and promise to drop it in the mail on her next trip outside. At the time, I couldn’t understand why she wouldn’t just let me run down to the corner and do it myself.

I wanted to continue this tradition with my own children, but being the online addict that I am, I wanted to bring it into the modern day. So instead of a catalog, I sat them down in front of the computer and pulled up the Toys ‘R Us website. I showed them how to browse the different categories, and how to add items to their shopping cart. Just like my mom used to, I told them to think very hard and pick toys that they really, really wanted, and I would send the cart to Santa when they were done and he would pick the very best toys to bring them. Unlike my mom, however, I neglected to give them any sort of limit. Here was the result:

Does anyone know where I can get a good rate on a home equity loan?

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