I spent an inordinate amount of my middle school existence in a mall. I don't really remember what the point of my weekly Saturday trips to the mall was—except to maybe scope out the latest selection of butterfly clips at Claire's (I always color-coordinated my clips to either match my braces or provide an extra bit of super trendy accessorized support for the Packers) and try on different shades of pink lip glosses (ok, and to check out all the eighth grade football studs who roamed the mall wearing snap pants). All I knew was that it was the cool thing to do and I wanted nothing more than to be a cool seventh grader.
Over time I realized that spending my weekends in a mall wasn't all that great—there had to be more to life than wandering aimlessly through the food court. So, I gathered up my nerves and broke up with malls upon my arrival at college. It wasn't a clean break—we were still friends with benefits through the end of freshman year, especially during sales time, but eventually I decided that it was only a destructive relationship. I tore up my ASM bus pass, cut myself off when I went home and re-committed myself to an anti-mall cause.
But oh, how I've had those mall cravings. And I've resisted all of them, until I found myself in need of a last minute Halloween costume last Thursday.
I had lost a bidding war on eBay (my competitor referenced the word ""ferret"" in her username, and I should've known that ferrets spelled trouble from the start) and thus was in a bind. I needed a perfect pair of wind-pants, so I found myself turning in the direction of JCPenney.
Something was a little unsettling. I found my way through the misses section and was easily distracted by trying to see how far I could stretch the elastic in their slim-fit khaki pants. I mentally added ""am wearing jeans with an elastic waistband"" to a list that included ""having several puff-painted and/or knitted, holiday-themed sweaters"" and ""am a local TV news reporter with bad makeup reporting on a cute squirrel who water-skis"" and gave permission for a select few to kill me if anything on the list occurs. But I started to look around and all the hopes I had for the mall were dashed.
This was not the mall experience I had come to know and love. There were screaming children crawling through some sort of scary play area with an oversized mouse and menacing-looking needle and thread. There were hordes of slow-moving old ladies who glared at anyone under the age of 45 who tried to pass them. Couples were making out on benches and children were throwing tantrums—what had happened to the mall?
Where were the packs of girls in braces and ponytails, their cheeks shimmering with body glitter, who walked up and down West Towne Mall checking out the football studs in their letter jackets? Where were the little old ladies who power-mall-walked in their incredibly bright white tennis shoes? Where were the families there for a fun outing? Why was someone actually getting an Aquamassage? And why on earth were there Christmas decorations?
I tried on my wind-pants and swished out of there as fast as I could—not even the enticing smell of a Cinnabon could tempt me this time. I guess we had both grown up in the time spent apart. In the hazy neon light, I could see West Towne Mall for what it really was, and as I sat down in a friend of a friend's car, I decided never to go back.
At least until the post-Thanksgiving Day sales.
