For Women, COVID has turned Target into a sacred space

My one-year-old stands at the baby gate, arms up, tears welling in her eyes.
“Sorry sweetheart,” I tell her. “Mama has to go to Target.”

I don’t, of course, but telling her “I need to take 45 minutes for my damn self” sounds harsh.

At the risk of betraying the sisterhood, I’m going to say the quiet part out loud. No one ever needs to go to Target. If you need yogurt or baby spinach or toilet paper, you go to a grocery store. If you need a new vacuum cleaner one can be delivered to your house within two days. What Target gives us is not consumer goods. Instead, telling our partners that we “need to do a Target run” buys us time.

Unlike Macy’s or Ulta (spaces designed for women to waste time in) Target is technically a grocery store. This means that even under the strictest of lockdowns it has remained somewhere we have permission to go. There were many times in 2020 where I cracked under cabin fever and conned myself into believing that a trip to Target was worth the exposure risk. As we go through a crisis on a national scale, it seems my experience has been mirrored. In the second quarter of 2020, Target’s profits rose by a staggering 80%. It’s safe to assume that there are a lot of us making up excuses to to browse the candle aisle.

And I suspect the overlords at Target’s corporate office know exactly what they’re doing. Over the past year, they have curated an experience to meet the needs of their very specific customers, 78% of whom are women. Once inside, I’m invited into a sanctuary where everything appears to be okay. A masked man tells me the carts have been sanitized in anticipation of my arrival. The air smells of that impossible fresh linen scent. A sign advertises jobs starting at $15 per hour. A tag on a tshirt tells me it is made from recycled plastic. Everything signals to me, a white middle class liberal woman, that my choices are valid. Although far from perfect as a company, Target provides enough corporate responsibility to offer shoppers relief from guilt. From the throw pillows to the one-pot meals, the basest desires of our capitalist hellscape are encouraged while our journeys towards our best selves are catered to. Come in, Eliza. Can we interest you in some cruelty-free lotion?

I am lucky that, unlike many women, I have a partner who truly co-parents. We never need to justify needing a break. Instead, I impose this entirely on myself. I could spend my Saturday in bed or reading or smoking weed but who besides me would that serve? I am not much of a hobby person. My husband plays video games and golfs and goes fishing. I enjoy cooking and growing vegetables. I will happily languish away a Sunday afternoon making some fussy French stew. My best friend loves to knit and we’ll often chat on the phone while she knits and I stir. That’s what restores my soul. And these “self care” activities just so happen to help feed and clothe the people around us.

In an economy where women, regardless of whether or not they have kids, do most of the housework, self care has taken on an almost religious meaning. “You can’t pour from an empty cup,” says the coffee mug. This implies that, without intervention, women will pour and pour and pour themselves until they have dried up. And so we must care for ourselves so that we can continue to effectively care for others. Paired with capitalism, we’re told that purchasing the right kind of herbal tea and bath salts for ourselves will help our whole families. And as the pandemic makes structural inequality more severe than in generations, we are desperate for anything that might help.

This isn’t the first time I’ve turned specifically to Target in a crisis. In 2019 I was pregnant with my first child. The depression that had operated in the background of my brain for 15 years came to the forefront. I was diagnosed with the most severe category of perinatal depression. Among other feelings, I was unable to imagine a future in which both me and my baby would be happy. Birth, to me, seemed like the death of my identity.

Faced with the expectation of being joyful, I couldn’t talk about my pregnancy in anything other than physical complaints. I avoided friends and family. By the end, I could barely leave my house in case a stranger asked when I was due. But what I could do, it turns out, was shop for baby stuff. It seems that even the darkest of souls lights up at the sight of very tiny shoes. While it could still be deeply triggering, browsing the baby section of Target became my safe space. I filled the house with bright, happy, cuddly things and eventually my mind caught up.

But retail is no substitute for therapy. I wish American society had more to offer women than a scented candle. But until it does, women just need to do what they can to survive the day. So, my sisters, continue lying to your toddlers. Buy your milk and bread. Browse the rows of decorative pillows. Consider the potential of vegan leather storage totes. And, above all, take your time.