I went to the largest mall in America (based on total leasable square footage) today to do my Christmas shopping. It was a zoo—of humans. Each animal with an expression of soul-less death on their faces, no one was happy to be there, they were there because they had to be. The animals lined up out the door for Starbucks and the Apple store (pour one out for Steve) because those products are necessities. Why are my feet killing me? Maybe moccasins were a poor choice.
My main objective was to find a present for my girlfriend. This quest to destroy the one ring that binds them led me into the caverns of many a department store—some with dragons that jealously guarded their goblin treasures. And by that I mean middle aged women who gave me weird and suspicious looks for checking out the hosiery. What? It’s a present, duh. Other stores had black holes many million times the size of the sun (ie. salespeople), which would suck you in and show you all (read: two, three max) great things about their product, all of which can be found on the products of their competitors. While they distract you with the variety of colors and their feigned sincerity—I know you work on a commission, bitch—they conveniently avoid mentioning the price: your left eye, social security number, a pint of unicorn blood, and $299.98. Shit, text books next semester or this gift?
I managed to avoid the gravity of the black holes and was back to looking for the perfect gift for my girlfriend. My damn feet. Yeah, moccasins were definitely a bad decision, and why does my hip hurt? Ok, ok, gift time. Ahh, Burberry.
Holy shit. The price tag read, “Your left testicle…ya know what, while you’re at it why don’t ya gimme that right one too.” Damn, I’m getting this gift specifically for the benefit of my testicles, quite the catch-22, Burberry. I made my way outta there like I had just accidentally walked in on a Black Panther meeting: fast as hell, but cautiously so as not to attract attention, nervous smile intact. Phew.
If the mall is a cave, Victoria’s Secret is a seam of gold in the rock formations. Wait, what? How old is that girl? Reminder: daughter will wear blinders to mall.
I decided to try one last department store. I made my way to the depths of the cave, where the fish have no eyes and the crayfish are completely white. On my way down I had to awkwardly side step another spelunker emerging from the depths who was carrying his baby’s stroller up the steps while his wife looked on adoringly. Showoff, take the escalator next time chief. Then I found it, the perfect gift. And by perfect I mean—she better like it. Will she like it? Does she like gold or silver? I think this is aluminum…do people think I’m gay, no they definitely know I’m shopping for a girl, why is that guy eyeing me? I gotta get outta here. Where’s the cashier?
“Ok, that will be one year’s tuition.”
“Uh…put it on my debit card.”
Despite the zombie-like mothers and the fathers weighted down with big, medium, and little brown bags, the people who walk on the wrong side of the aisle (right side people, like a car, strollers don’t make you better than me, yea, you.), the five year old girls in Victoria’s Secret shopping casually for thongs, the Mediterranean folks trying to sell me bath salts from the dead sea (no thanks, fell for that last year), the utter chaos, and the spray on butter at Auntie Anne’s, it was a successful trip. Being immersed in the consumerism of a shopping mall always seems to make me feel like it is Christmastime. I’m not sure what that says about me, or society in general, but nonetheless, I’ll take the caves and suspicious looks for a little Christmas spirit any time.
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