k-mart

Sometimes I like to walk around K-Mart all by myself in the evening. It's open late and it's five minutes from my house, so every few weeks, after Liam goes to bed and Scott becomes absorbed in his computer game or Family Guy, I head out. I usually really need something like toothpaste or hair color, but that's not why I go. I go because it's a chance to lose myself in fantasy. Yes, K-Mart is my fantasy land, but I have to go alone, at night, or it doesn't work.

I love to walk in and head for the hair color aisle. There are hundreds of colors. Hundreds. I usually go for dark strawberry blond or light auburn, which is close to my natural color but slightly more interesting. Sometimes I go a little lighter or darker, or maybe a different brand, but I look them all over every time. I imagine myself with short dark hair like the pretty, sophisticated-looking lady down the street who takes her kids to my son's karate school. I've wanted dark hair ever since I was a little girl. It has always seemed more mysterious and dangerous and alluring to me, which are things I've always secretly wanted to be. With dark hair I'd be a creature so unlike who I am—the wholesome Midwestern girl with strawberry blond hair, freckles, and a desperate fear of hurting people, or being hurt. On the other hand, sometimes I imagine getting the peroxide streaking kit and being very blond with sun-dried beachy hair, a tanned little nose, and a perky, fun-loving personality. I would take up surfing and be good at it, and wear a red bikini and feel nothing but warm sunshine and busty confidence. The boys would like me, especially the lifeguards, and I wouldn't be afraid of them. But mostly I want to have lots and lots of dramatic, wild, curly dark red hair, like a Pre-Raphaelite fairy tale character or Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman. I tried it once about twelve years ago. My hair was long and I dyed it very red and slept in pink foam rollers. The next morning I went to work with my hair and gave tours to old ladies all afternoon. By evening the curls had gone limp and I felt like an ass. I washed my hair several times to fade the color, but it was a state of being only time could mend. Back at K-Mart, I consider all my options—all the people I could be, all the lives I could live—and then select my usual L'Oréal RB8 and put it in my basket.

Next I head for the shoe department. The shoes are terrible at K-Mart, but I always scrutinize every aisle just in case I find a gem. In winter I look at slippers. They are all imposters, but I like them anyway. Some look like princess slippers, all pink and fuzzy with little satin bows in the front. Some are made for a pretend ski lodge, with faux wool linings and indoor/outdoor soles. Usually they don't have my size (M, 7–8), just lots of small and big ones (S, 5-6 and XL, 11–12). Once I did find a pair of pretend ski lodge slippers in my size and I bought them. I wear them year-round when I'm doing housework, even though they tore in the front early on. The soles are slippery too, so I have to be careful on the stairs.

Hosiery is next and typically more promising. I can count on K-Mart to have interesting tights that will last through a wash or two, which is really all you need. I usually check the thigh-high hosiery display as well—I sometimes like thigh-highs because they don't pinch my waist after lunch. I never like K-Mart's selection, but it never stops me from looking, just in case. The women on the fronts of the thigh-high packages are all decked out in corsets and lacy underwear, as if taking away the control-top suddenly makes the whole concept of nylons more exciting. Could I ever be like that take-her-home-to-mother whore on the package? Me, who knows all of my own inadequacies so intimately? She looks so happy and comfortable in her sexy thigh-highs and bustier. But then, she has dark hair. She is by nature mysterious and exciting. Perhaps I could exchange the L'Oréal RB8 for something darker and buy the sheer thigh-highs? Does K-Mart sell the corsets too? No. No. Better to go with the opaque thigh-high tights in the plain packaging at Wal-Mart. They will be warmer in the winter anyway.

At least 25 minutes have passed. Sometimes I move on to the gloves, scarves, hats, and handbags area. Accessories really are the most transforming of possessions. K-Mart sells a winter glove I really like, with half-fingers and a moveable mitten-top you can flip back and forth to cover or expose your finger-tips as needed. For two years in a row I've bought these glove-mittens in red. They are the only red things I own and I love them. One spring I bought a 100% real straw gardening hat and I put it on whenever I weed my garden boxes. I love this hat as well. When I wear it I am in southern Africa under a hot sun, trying to grow coffee like Meryl Streep. Sometimes, at K-Mart, I also try on polyester newsboy hats or plastic aviator sunglasses or rayon scarves or vinyl motorcycle bad-girl handbags with faux metal studs. I feel comfortable in none of these things, but I put them on and look in the mirror anyway, hoping no one is watching. I am a grunge model, Amelia Earhart, Grace Kelly, and Joan Jett.

Sometimes I stroll through the patio furniture display or the garden section. The pool toys, board games, office supplies, linens, furniture, and (a favorite!) the kitchen gadgets. I pick things up, examine them, consider the price, and put them back. I do this over and over and over again, all the while knowing I will most likely never buy any of this cheap, piece-of-shit merchandise. But I like to consider these items carefully. I like to imagine what it would be like if they were nice and I had them all in my dream house with my dream life and my dream self, who could change every day depending on her moody inclinations.

And then, when my conscience tells me I'll start to raise questions at home if I'm gone much longer, I head to one of the two open check-out lanes. I wait and wait, and finally I unload the contents of my shopping basket onto the counter: one box of L'Oréal RB8 hair color, one pair of cheap tights, children's spf 50 sunscreen, a birthday card, and boys' size 6 Batman underpants. Sue (Layaway Manager) scans my selections and puts them in plastic bags. I swipe my debit card and stare at the giant bra Sue is wearing under her cheap polyester blouse. Lace? Sue? Really? Pin number entered, receipt taken, have a nice evening. Oh, Sue, you have no idea. I have had a nice evening. I've been a whore and the Princess of Monaco, a surfer girl and Robert Redford's Danish-African lover, all courtesy of K-Mart and the miracle of synthetic fibers. I feel refreshed, renewed, and ready to go home and face my reality for a few more weeks, until RB8 fades and it's time, inevitably, to recolor.