A Year Older, None the Wiser

 One day, one store, and a lifetime’s worth of embarrassing lessons— plus a wreath 

Sitting in the Target parking lot, I’m reflecting on my day and wondering if wisdom really comes with age—or if it just unlocks new, more creative ways to embarrass myself in public.

The day starts with a high-stakes battle: me versus the snooze button. Pilates? Not today. My only stretch is a heroic reach to silence the alarm. I feed the dogs, leash them up, and skip the shower—embracing my “natural oils” like I’m auditioning for a survival show.

Conference calls kick off. I’m feeling unstoppable—until I realize my camera is on and my hair is channeling “mad scientist chic.” Fingers crossed my coworkers think I just showered, not that I’m starring in a shampoo commercial gone wrong.

No nap at lunch, but I’m on a mission: “It’s going to be a good day!” The rain stops, so I go full action hero—freshen up with “dude wipes” (don’t judge, they were on sale), throw on a ball cap, spritz my new birthday perfume, and wrangle the dogs for a high-speed dash to the dog park.

The dogs are thrilled—until a puppy strutted in, tail high, ready to make friends. Instantly, my 5- and 8-pound boys went full WWE: one zipped around the puppy’s face like a caffeinated drone, while the other tried to deliver a crash course in “the birds and the bees.” The puppy’s eyes went wide, its ears shot up, and it froze mid-wag—clearly questioning every life choice that led to this moment. If puppies could text, this one would’ve sent an SOS to its mom: “Come get me, these guys are nuts!” The owners looked mortified, the puppy looked like it was reconsidering its entire social calendar, and I looked like the ringleader of a canine circus. Sorry, puppy, welcome to the park—where chaos is complimentary and dignity is strictly optional.

Just as I’m wrangling my canine tornadoes and apologizing to the puppy’s shell-shocked family, a squirrel rockets across the field like it’s late for a job interview. My dogs spot it and instantly forget all social norms. They launch into a synchronized chase, dragging me behind them like a water-skier who never signed up for lessons. I’m airborne for a split second, clutching leashes, purse, and dignity, before landing in a patch of mud. The puppy, now emboldened, joins the chase, and suddenly it’s a full-blown woodland stampede. Somewhere in the chaos, my ball cap flies off, my perfume is replaced by Eau de Wet Grass, and I realize: wisdom may not come with age, but slapstick certainly does.

We survive. Christmas music blares, and I’m struck by a “brilliant” idea: drop off the dogs and storm Target for more holiday decorations. Never mind that last year’s haul is still in boxes—this year, I’m going for gold.

Inside Target, I make a beeline for the dollar area, ready to hunt bargains like a reality TV contestant. Can’t see prices. I flag down a worker, who flips the tag for me. Oh. Note to self: retrieve glasses from the car. I remember my spot—victory! But someone’s waiting for it. I pretend not to notice and skip the “courage wave,” channeling my inner stealth ninja.

Glasses on, I return to the holiday section, determined to conquer the chaos. Holiday stuff is everywhere—none of it where it belongs. I get hit by a cart and trapped between two people shouting “Honey, look, isn’t that cute?” directly in my ear. I’m pretty sure I now know more about their marriage than they do. No hearing aids needed today!

I spot the kid with the pricing gun and approach like I’m negotiating a hostage release.

Me: “Hey, can you tell me how much this wreath is?”
Pricing Gun Kid: (scans, shrugs) “Thirty-five dollars.”
Me: “Thirty-five? For this? If I lived up north, I’d just wander into the woods and make myself a wreath for free. But here in Florida, I guess I’m paying for imported pine and a sense of holiday dignity.”
Pricing Gun Kid: “I just scan stuff. I don’t make the prices.”
Me: “Can you scan my willpower? I think it’s on clearance.”
Pricing Gun Kid: (nervous laugh, tries to escape)
Me: “Wait! What about this sparkly reindeer?”
Pricing Gun Kid: (scans, sighs) “Five dollars.”
Me: “Five dollars? Does it come with emotional support?”
Pricing Gun Kid: (edges away) “I think I hear my manager calling…”
Me: “If you see my dignity in aisle seven, let me know.”

He executes a flawless fast-walk getaway worthy of an Olympic medal, leaving me with existential questions and a cart full of questionable purchases. Self-talk wins—I don’t buy the overpriced wreath, but I do grab a few things I didn’t know I needed. Or did I? Target’s magic: you enter for one thing, leave with a cart full of existential questions.

Feeling adult-ish and cost-conscious, I leave Target both defeated and victorious. Then, disaster: I lose my car. Suddenly, I’m starring in my own episode of “Parking Lot Survivor.” I wander the asphalt jungle, arms loaded with bags, dodging SUVs that are stalking me like hungry lions waiting for my spot. I try to look confident, but my “I totally know where I parked” face quickly morphs into “I’m about to call my mom for help.”

I finally spot my car—hallelujah! I speed-walk toward it like I’m crossing the finish line at the Olympics, only to realize I’ve dropped a bag and have to do the walk of shame back to retrieve it.

I collapse into the driver’s seat, ready for sweet escape—except my key fob has vanished. Cue the purse excavation: I’m elbow-deep in receipts, lip balm, and enough loose change to pay off a small nation. I find a granola bar from 2022, three pens that don’t work, and a mysterious button that might belong to a coat I no longer own. Meanwhile, cars are honking and circling like sharks sensing blood in the water. I nervously shuffle through my purse, convinced the key fob is hiding just to test my sanity. Then, just as I’m about to panic, I remember: the key fob doesn’t even work. It’s only good for starting the car, not for rescuing me from my own organizational chaos.

I finally find it, jam it into the console, and start the car, ready for my triumphant exit—only to be ambushed by a stench so powerful it could be weaponized. The smell hits me like a slap from a wet fish. What fresh horror is this? In the dark, with someone beeping at me to move, I fumble for my phone flashlight and discover the culprit: I’ve stepped in poop. Not just a little—enough to qualify for a hazardous materials sticker. There’s poop smeared on my brake, my shoe, and, somehow, my reusable shopping bag.

So, I do what any seasoned Target warrior would do: I grab my trusty dude wipes and go to battle. Don’t knock dude wipes—they were on sale and, at this point, they’re the MVP of my day. I scrub the brake, my shoe, and the bag, all while cars continue to honk and the “Mr. Grinch” soundtrack mocks me from the radio. If there were Olympic medals for parking lot clean-up, I’d be on the podium.

A year older, maybe a little wiser, definitely funnier. If life is a classroom, today I aced “Advanced Embarrassment” and minored in “Improvisational Poop Removal.” Next year, I’ll bring my glasses, patience, a tactical supply of dude wipes—and if Target ever puts dignity on sale, I’m buying it in bulk. Because if adulthood has taught me anything, it’s that sometimes you just have to clean up the mess, smile for the imaginary cameras, and pretend you paid full price for wisdom.