As I sat there in a department store dressing room, quietly rocking and talking to myself, I realized just how small I was inside this monstrosity people call The Mall.
What floor am I on? Wait…I don’t even remember which store I’m in. How do I get out?! Where did I park the car? What if I just stayed in here, read my book? Would anybody find me? Might I get locked inside and spend a horror-filled night terrorized by racks of radioactive disgruntled pants?
I decided I had better put my own pants back on and start the task of finding an exit- any exit- so I could make it home before nightfall.
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not mine...this is my stunt double
Since I had the day off work today, I decided to make a trek out to the local Mall to maybe, hopefully, find some pants that didn’t creep up my butt or slice my tummy in half if I were to sit down for too long. Now, I am not a Mall person. The only thing I really like about them is people-watching, and maybe people-watching while stuffing my face with a hot, gooey cinnabon…mmm…cinnabon. When I go shopping alone I also end up talking out loud to myself like a crazy person and I get lost easily which makes me mad because that’s just what those evil Mall designers want to happen!
I particularly hate shopping for pants because it basically makes me feel like shit until I find some that actually fit and look cute on me. Trust me, it ain’t my butt that’s the problem, cuz my butt is awesome. It’s that people CAN’T. MAKE. PANTS. for butts like mine + the way I like to wear my pants. (read: I am not a hoochie, whale-tail baring teenager anymore, nor am I a pants-up-past-my-belly-button mom jeans wearing mom) I want something right in the middle.
This brings me to my next dilemma: I am caught between two worlds in department stores. Today I found myself slowly, idly wandering the women’s floor not liking the mom jeans that are baggy and ride up to my armpits and the huge, shapeless sweaters. So then I tried the juniors departments, with the loud, pumping house music where the pants start at size <000 and are supposed to be skin-tight and are so low-cut that they’ll show half my ass crack if I even think about bending over. (Sorry that I just made you picture my ass crack. Oops, did it again. Moving on.) In short, going to the Mall creates this mini existential crisis for me. Who am I? Who do I want to be? Where do I fit in? Why is this music so loud?!
If I had to choose one, I still do feel more at home in the juniors departments, but it’s just super hard to find pants for me that will fit comfortably over my ladyparts and be midrise -not too low and not too high- that juuuust right feeling. I propose creating a new department that will be for hip, professional, non-parent 20- and 30-somethings that will be something in between hoochie child and soccer mom. Maybe something ‘tasteful with a pinch of slut.’ I’ll be accepting ideas from the public on this one.
So, after all this wandering, searching, crazy mumbling, tugging and pulling on pants, getting lost…I found myself hiding in the dressing room, wallowing in defeat. The one flash of hope was when a tall, handsome, Aryan stranger (salesperson) at one of those kiosks in the middle of the Mall walkways tried to give me a sample of something. “No, thanks!” I said, and kept on walking.
“Wait, Miss?” he called out. I hesitated and turned. In his sexy non-American accent he said: “Let me show you something amazing.”
You have magic-fitting pants in that kiosk?! was my first thought. But, alas, it wasn’t to be. I turned and ran away before he could lure me with body lotion or a bag of Cheetos.
Needless to say, I come home pantsless today (well, at least I came home wearing the pants I had on when I left for the Mall). I’ll be back another day, Mall. Just you wait. Juuuust…you….wait.
Psychobabble 