Hell is the Mall

My husband sent me to the mall this weekend. The jerk. One kid needed new shoes, our only set of sheets had a hole in them and they have better quality bath towels than ours, in prison. 

I have no interest in leaving my house to go looking for things. I prefer they materialize when I require them. I think that's the whole purpose of the Internet: to keep people like me out of public.

But my husband had caught hold of a coupon flyer in the mail. And because he knows how delicate my sense of design is (what a nice way to put it), I was sentenced to the task. 

As I was loading my shoe-less daughter into the car, she noted my grim countenance.

“Don’t you like going shopping, Mama?” asked my little dear.

“There's too much of everything. The place we’re going has many stores in one building and each has hundreds of things for sale. A store's job is to get people to buy as much as possible, and they're really good at it. Our job is to try not buy too much more than we need. It takes a lot of energy. ” I panted in one breath. "No, I don't like going shopping."

I drug my poor girl along by the hand, a bit faster than was a comfortable pace for her. With a plotted course and set strategy, we found our way to the shoe store. As we were making our purchase, the sales lady asked me if I was part of their rewards program. “I hate the mall,” I responded.

I don’t want to sign up to receive store promotions. I don’t want any paper mail or email or punch cards or coupons. I don’t want to save any percentage off my purchase by opening a store charge account. I don't want to be here.

When we stepped into the bedding and bath department to look for sheets and towels, I was overwhelmed. I’m sure that’s their plan. All I had to do was sigh heavily and a woman appeared, not unlike Glinda the Good Witch, ready to sell me anything I didn’t need. Her talent was to make me feel pampered.

“I want you to feel these pillowcases,” she invited with such enthusiasm, I was sure my own baby’s bottom felt like rough-grit sandpaper in comparison.

“Describe what you look for in a bath towel,” she implored. I exhaled with great relief and collapsed onto a display bed. I didn’t think anyone would ever ask.

“You say this color isn’t bad, but which one would you say is great?” She knew I was playing it safe with the beige and preferred the grey-blue sheet set.

My sales lady seemed so genuinely concerned about the delicacy of a my dermis when considering thread count, I wasn’t even looking at prices. 

The mall is a soul sucker. It perpetuates servitude to shiny objects and fluffy towels. Oh boy, did I get some fluffy towels.

There was noise blaring from one of the make-up counters as we were leaving. I spotted a DJ spinning records and concluded that the noise was supposed to be music. Is something like that an enticement to people to draw nearer and make purchases? If I hadn’t been choking my way through perfume and clambering onto the escalator to keep from having a seizure, I might have asked someone.

I saw women at the mall who look liked they lived there. They were dressed up as I’ve only ever seen women at a mall dress. Which makes me think they were dressed up to be at the mall. I don’t know what to do with that.

I was so disgusted with the experience, I came right home and showered, dried off with my new Turkish bath towels and snuggled into my 600 thread count luxury hotel sheets to recover.