Why Do We All Lose Our Shit in Target Parking Lots?

Okay, so I need to talk about something that’s been haunting me for years. Why the fuck does everyone have their emotional breakdowns in Target parking lots specifically?

I’m not even kidding. I went to Target yesterday for laundry detergent. ONE thing. That’s it. I had a list. I was focused. I was a goddamn adult with a plan.

Two hundred dollars later, I’m loading my car with throw pillows I absolutely do not need, a charcuterie board shaped like Michigan, some bullshit candle called “Autumn Harvest Dreams,” and, wait for it, no fucking laundry detergent.

That’s when it hit me. Sitting there in my car, staring at these bags of regret, and I just… lost it; full-on ugly crying in my Honda Civic at 2 PM on a Tuesday.

I called my best friend, barely able to speak.

“Target?” she said immediately.

“How did you know?”

“Babe, I can hear the fluorescent light hangover in your voice. How bad?”

“I bought a seasonal wreath.”

“Okay…”

“It’s October. The wreath is for spring.”

“Oh, honey.”

“And I spent forty-seven dollars on hand soap. DECORATIVE hand soap. I don’t even use decorative hand soap! I buy the giant Costco pump bottle like a normal person!”

She laughed, but not in a mean way. In that knowing way, that says she’s been there too. Because here’s the thing — we’ve ALL been there. Target parking lots are where functional adults go to have full-scale meltdowns about their life choices.

Nobody cries in a Walmart parking lot. Do you know what happens in Walmart parking lots? Fistfights. Shopping cart theft. Someone’s always selling something out of their trunk. But Target? Target parking lots are sacred ground for existential crises.

And I’ve figured out why.

Target is basically a casino for suburban anxiety. No windows. Confusing layout. That aggressive red color everywhere, somehow, makes you think you need things. You walk in feeling like a responsible human with a budget, and you walk out $200 poorer, clutching a succulent in a ceramic llama planter, wondering if this is what rock bottom looks like.

But you don’t realize how bad it is until you’re in the parking lot. That’s where the spell breaks. Where you sit in your car, surrounded by evidence of your crimes against your bank account, and face the horrible truth: you are a person who just spent eighteen dollars on a candle that smells like “Flannel Season.”

What the hell is Flannel Season? Is that even a real thing? Did I seriously spend eighteen dollars making it a real thing?

My therapist asked me once why I keep going back.

“Because I need stuff,” I said.

“Do you leave with the stuff you need?”

“…No. But I leave with super cute storage ottomans.”

She made that face. The one that says, “We’ll unpack this later,” but really means, “You have a problem.”

But it’s not just me! This is a whole fucking phenomenon! Your mom’s done it. Your sister’s done it. That one coworker who came back from “running a quick errand” with mascara streaks and a cart full of organizational bins she’ll never use? She gets it.

We all have that one friend who texts us from a Target parking lot like, “I went in for batteries and spent $300, and I’m having a panic attack and I think I need to reevaluate my entire life.”

And we all responded, “Been there. You good?”

Because that’s the thing, Target parking lot breakdowns are a rite of passage. A shared cultural experience. It’s how we know we’re human. We go in for toilet paper and come out with a new throw blanket, three candles, a cheese board, and the sudden realization that we have absolutely no control over anything.

And still no toilet paper.

It’s the modern-day hero’s journey, except instead of slaying a dragon, you’re just trying to remember why you came here in the first place while “Wonderwall” plays over the intercom and you convince yourself you NEED that $45 faux sheepskin rug.

So if you see someone crying in a Target parking lot, don’t judge them. They didn’t fail at life. They just fell victim to the Target vortex like the rest of us. Give them a knowing nod. Maybe a thumbs up. Let them know they’re not alone in their cart full of regret and decorative storage solutions.

We’re all just out here trying our best and failing spectacularly in the most aesthetically pleasing way possible.

Update: I’m writing this from a Target parking lot right now. I went in for milk. I bought a doormat that says “Come Back With Tacos” and a bath mat shaped like a cat. I’m fine. Everything’s fine. We’re all fine.

The Kicker

Look, I know I should probably stop going to Target. I know I should make a list, stick to it, get in, and get out like some kind of emotionally stable person who has their shit together.

But here’s what I’ve realized: maybe the Target parking lot breakdown isn’t a bug — it’s a feature. Maybe we all need that moment where we sit in our cars, surrounded by impulse purchases and existential dread, and just… feel it all. The overwhelm. The chaos. The absurdity of being an adult who can’t be trusted alone with a red cart and unlimited access to home decor.

Maybe that parking lot cry is the most honest thing we do all week.

Or maybe I’m just trying to justify the fact that I now own seven decorative throw pillows and a spring wreath in October.

Either way, I’ll see you next Tuesday when I inevitably need “just one thing.”

Bring tissues.