A Mall Tale

I took the day off today. I have the next 16 days to sneak in another 5 days or so of vacation time or I’ll lose it, so I decided to celebrate the first day of sunshine in what seems like forever by taking a “staycation” day. Andrew also had a free day pre-finals and needed a few things before he leaves for his summer as a camp counselor next week. He requested a trip to the mall (can’t study all day) and well, that is an offer I would never refuse. As a mother of 3 sons, there has not been an abundance of "can we go to the mall" cries in my house. More likely to hear "Do we have to go the mall...?" Practically blasphemy in my world, the mall is a happy place; how did I give life to these non-believers? To be honest I've been spending less time at the mall in recent years, perhaps due to double college tuitions or the ease of on-line shopping. Lately each visit is more for a necessity or just a pleasant way to waste a few hours.  Virtual shopping doesn't give me nearly as much joy, I need to touch and try on and see how I feel in a potential purchase. Web shopping has its own rush when I click "add to cart" but I like to leave it there for a while and see if I'm still fixated on it later. I put items on a “mental hold” and sometimes just the thought of a purchase is enough, no shipping required. When I do complete a transaction, less often than you would think, it's a bit of a letdown, knowing I have to wait for delivery. I'm an immediate gratification kind of gal, "I want it now", like Veruca Salt (Willy Wonka reference). When the UPS packages arrive I am faced with the moment of truth, still love it or what was I thinking. Then, the choice, can't wait to wear it or crap, I have to go to the post office to return it. The mall eliminates the waiting and return postage; "yes" you're coming home to my closet or "no" back to the rack. Occasional buyer’s remorse does require that some of the chosen ones never get a wearing, but a return always offers the hope for something better. I know what you're thinking, and I am a little obsessed, but acknowledgment is power and I can and do shop with control. I can't always tell a waiter to skip the bread basket (and almost never do) but I can leave the mall empty handed and log-off jcrew.com with a full cart of pretend purchases.

My mall love began at an early age. Back in 1974, I was 12 year old, when WestFarms Mall entered my world. Almost every Saturday my parents would drop me off with my friends, $20, store credit cards and a parental note allowing purchasing power. Something tells me none of the above would work for today’s teenage girls. I remember in the early years we’d anxiously wait to see what new stores would open, pushing each other into the temporary white construction facades if someone got too close. We’d try on clothes that our parents would never let us buy and make-up and jewelry that we’d never wear. Lunch was at Kathy John’s, a restaurant and pseudo old-fashioned candy store with big wooden barrels filled with penny candy. At some point we’d use the pay phone and call a parent to come get us. With any luck I’d come home with something new; who remembers Huck-a-poo shirts or Sasson jeans? It went on like that for the a few years until my mall weekends ended abruptly with a shoplifting incident at JC Penney, that after that day, was never spoken about again. I am not exaggerating when I tell you that I was so traumatized by my capture by mall security guards, my winter coat pockets filled with Bonne Belle lip smackers, and ushered to the JC Penney security office that from that moment on I have been a law abiding citizen (at least when it comes to petty theft). I had money and the credit cards with me, but when the cool girls invite you to hang out with them at the mall, the five-finger discount seemed a fairly harmless way to fit in. Obviously my first venture into the dark underbelly of the “bad girls” did not end well for the 4’10” goody-two-shoes who was also the Student Council president. My parents were called, I was sent home in shame with a warning that I was not to enter JC Penney until I was 18. I kid you not, I never did (and in truth, it was no great sacrifice in my pursuit of fashion). Sadly, I do have to admit that there were moments in my adult life where I did have to cross the JCP threshold and each time I took a nervous breath wondering if somewhere in the deep recesses of the security offices was a tattered black and white photo from my early years of crime. Would the now seasoned mall cop of my youth recognize me and search my baby bag for potential stolen goods? Happily I have escaped any further brush with the law and the reputation shattering listing in the local police log.  At some point I felt it necessary to share this unfortunate chapter with my teenage children, a parental moment of “scared straight”, saving this generation from a life of crime. I am actually imagining my mother reading this blog thinking, I can’t believe she told this story. Sorry Mom, dirty laundry has been aired, I think most people know I turned out OK and the transgressions of my pre-teen years are no reflection on your parenting skills.

Today’s trip to the mall was far less eventful, as they usually are with boys. We had 4 items on the list and that is exactly what we bought. No impulse purchases, all accomplished in less than an hour and back in the car. Not even the offer of an Aunt Annie’s pretzel or visit to Game Stop could entice him to hang out even a second longer than necessary. Although my sons think that I am forever pining for a daughter to enjoy “malldom” with me, they are sadly misinformed. Yes, a mother/daughter shopping trip sounds fun and I do still enjoy plenty of them with my mom (wish she still paid and hung up the discarded clothes in the fitting room) but I have come to realize that there is only enough purchasing power in my wallet for one mall lover. For a mother that can’t say no, even to the limited desires of sons, a daughter would surely have made us the best dressed family in the homeless shelter (I share that line with RW, we both realized this early on when nearly maxing out the credit cards with clothing for infant sons). My boys have simple needs, granted they have excellent taste (hello, who is their mother) and as long as it fits, doesn’t itch and isn’t even remotely metrosexual, we’re good. I know that someday I will be the best mother-in-law a girl could hope for. I tested it out with a few potential choices, and have been an excellent pretend MIL, generous, non-judgmental and fashionably informed. I also have a stellar reputation as a shopping companion; nothing makes me happier than helping others spend their money and make superior wardrobe decisions, all done with complete honesty and plenty of laughs. I have references if you don’t believe me, I make shopping fun.

My family used to joke that shopping was my hobby, and maybe that’s just a little bit true, but I’m not ashamed anymore. As defined by Webster, a hobby is an activity or interest pursued for pleasure or relaxation and not as a main occupation. Guess that shoe fits, put it on my debit card and I’ll take it home. See you at the mall.