There I was on Saturday afternoon, innocently standing in line at Target with my mom. We’re carrying heavy baskets full of stuff, chattering away light-heartedly, talking about dinner and possibly seeing a movie. Everything is fine. Not a care in the world. I could smell vanilla — and maybe a hint of lavender. I was buying delicious snacks. Birds were chirping; a rainbow may have possibly appeared along the wall, draped over a pack of fluffy golden retriever puppies tumbling along in the aisles.
And then — then I saw THIS . . .
. . . on the cover of a random magazine, dropped unceremoniously near the counter by another customer. Discarded. Just happened to be sitting there, ready to rip my world to shreds.
And the birds flew off, flapping their wings angrily; the rainbow evaporated, leaving a gray streak in its wake. The puppies all started barking, then scampered away, too. And it was just Me and The Magazine.
Did I buy it? No. I mean, why torture myself? Sure, John Mayer is on the cover of it making out with his girlfriend (and alleged fiancee, if you listen to some sources), Jennifer Freaking Aniston, but why should I pry even more into their every day lives? So what if they were returning from a romantical island getaway over Valentine’s Day, where they no doubt recreated the above scene for four days straight? And they were boarding separate planes, and couldn’t bear to be separated from one another for a few hours? And had to keep their arms wrapped around each other, afraid of ever letting go? I mean, WHO CARES. Geez, STOP BRINGING IT UP ALREADY.
And now I’ll get back to work. After I decompress, take a long walk, finish up my Diet Coke and see if anyone has a spot where I can do a bit of yoga. For a half hour or so.