It never fails I always end up feeling guilty ... I don’t know why I continue to do it, I guess it just seems like a good idea at the time. Maybe I do it for the brief distraction it gives me, maybe I do it because I’m bored, or maybe it’s just because I want to get out of the house. It’s shopping, I guess it could be called retail therapy, except for the fact it usually makes me feel worse by the time I’m done.
I just spent two hours and a hundred dollars at Target. All I came home with is a bunch of crap I don’t really need. I aimlessly wander around the store pushing my cart with no real direction. I don’t have a purpose for being there. I am lost, I am a zombie just walking up and down the isles. I look alive to all the other shoppers— they have no clue how dead I am on the inside.
I pass by all the holiday decorations and I think about how I will not be celebrating— screw pumpkin spice coffee creamer and cinnamon scented candles. I want to cancel the holidays from of my life forever. Holidays are about family, my family exists as a box of ashes sitting on my headboard.
I pass isles lined with wall decor and pictures frames that have quotes about “family”, “love”, and “memories”. F*uck that! I hate that generic crap. Where is the real stuff, the wall art about about pain, torture and despair. I saw a sign that said “where flowers grow hope lies,” I have a huge flower bed in my front yard, and theres no hope there.
Then I see the mens section, my heart aches ... I have no reason to venture over there. Elliott’s dead I don’t need to pick up anything for him. He doesn’t need new socks or boxers. He doesn’t need me to grab some axe deodorant or skin bracer aftershave.
I randomly find myself standing in the car care section. I have no clue how I got here. Elliott loved washing our vehicles. He would spend hours detailing them. Even though they are old he took pride in the things we owned. He took care of our things. This is a section he would be standing in, he would be staring at the Armor All wipes and tire cleaners. I have no business being in this section, this is El’s domain. I realize where I am and It stings, I quickly grab the handles of my cart and get out of there.
No matter where I go or what isle I wander down I cannot escape my reality. It slaps me in the face at every turn. Each row of neatly placed merchandise conjures up a thought or memory. Those thoughts and memories always lead to the same place— I am alone, my husband is gone, and shopping sucks.