Signs of these awful times

You know it's been a long winter when the temperature peaks at 46 degrees Fahrenheit, and you see people golfing.

I'm not kidding. I witnessed just that scene last weekend.

This is the time in our cruel winter season when I ponder the purchase of stock in some heavy-duty skin cream—a time when suddenly, I begin to find greater merit in anti-depressants and sun lamps. Moving somewhere far, far south becomes an increasingly attractive option.

I read recently about a new condition described as "snow rage," or explosive behavior swings caused by a relentlessly cold, wintry season that drags on longer than some people can bear. Except what can I call it when I'm still experiencing the symptoms but there's no snow? My son suggested "salt rage." I'm thinking that plain old rage would cover it some days...

Adding to my rage-cum-depression is the fact that I've been to the mall more in the past 7 days than in the last year. The weather's made me do it. I loathe the mall on principle, yet it provides ample, warm, un-slippery walking space. So I've headed there a couple of times recently, and I plan to do so again before the week is up. It's a safe, free way to raise my heart rate without risking my neck on ice or causing our small, wobbly living room to quake violently while I jiggle and gasp to an exercise beat.

What's so depressing about a mall, you ask? Well, it functions as a cultural outsider alarm for me. Nowhere else do I feel so removed from our twisted vision of modern suburban America. All of my denials about how sick we are as a nation come crashing down on me when I'm walking through a shopping mall. It's sort of like standing near young, lovely, slender girls. I don't enjoy doing that, because it heightens my awareness of just how little I share with those pretties these days. And the mall? Man, do I feel like an interloper there. I'm surprised they let me in.

I stride along those wide, polished floors, past window after window of mostly naked women, young smooth-chinned lads embracing other handsome and hairless boys, flat-chested young females pouting at me with hooded, come-hither glances... We certainly do groom these innocents for tawdry and sultry, don't we? It's not just the over-saturation of sex that appalls me, though. Nearly every store is selling a lie: our furniture will help you relax more completely; this hand soap will transport you to an island getaway. And these pretzels will make you think of an elderly relative who cooked with far too much butter yet so much love. But wait, here's a new gadget with a flashing screen, and it's newer than yours... Do you have high-heeled, open-toed ankle booties like these? Never mind how hideous they are, you need them to complete your designer duds.

The whole place is designed to entice, to beguile, to mislead, and ultimately to separate you from your money. It's all crap, and it deflates the heck out of me.

I really hope the stupid weather improves; I'm about ready to pull a serious groundhog, people.

Opiate for the (financially comfortable and pretty) masses

I went to the mall today.

I’m not a mallrat by any means. Today’s trip was the first visited there in a few months—and today’s mission took place mostly before the stores even opened. It was time to walk indoors on a snowy day, to work harder to fit into my “fat” clothes—fat clothes being the more forgiving portion of every woman’s wardrobe… When the fat clothes no longer fit, then the walking must commence. Hence my mall visit.

I’m always amazed when I’m in a mall; it’s like a whole new world has opened to me. A pretty, bright, fragrant world, with many gadgets and lights and beautiful people. Can this possibly be the same world I inhabit daily? Where are the unattractive people? Where are the foul odors? The noise? The poor? The unhealthy? No sign of them within this well-attended splendour.

It’s especially hard to believe we’re in a recession as I stride through the halls of success. Not even Thanksgiving yet, but every store beckons wallet-bearing passersby with shop-appropriate Christmas carols and décor. The athletic wear store blares rap Christmas from its entry, while classic jazz Christmas wafts out of the mature women’s clothing lines. Like children staring through a candy store window, eager shoppers line up before the gated entrances, gazing hungrily through the metal bars, mentally organizing their purchases before they even set foot inside.

And the shoppers themselves: Did I ever wear high heels to go shopping? I cannot recall a single occasion. I realize some of the people might have been stopping off en route to another final destination, perhaps work? But the number of women, and not just vain young women, who shop in tiny stilettos always amazes me. It’s 9:30 am and they’re tripping around on just a few square inches, by choice. I’m speechless.

It’s difficult for me not to feel like an alien when trooping through a well-to-do suburban shopping mecca like today’s walking locale. The typical shopper is, quite simply, of a different caliber than I. Well-tailored, well-heeled, mostly older women roam with confidence in this materialistic haven. It is their world, and they know it. They don’t even bother to glance at little old me in her worn sneakers and stretch pants. “Not one of us.” They’re right—I’d never argue.

And everywhere, the message is the same: Spend. Signs outside of kids’ and teens’ shops are especially disturbing: One of them said, “All I want is everything.” What the--?! What kind of message is that? Sometimes I feel genuinely sad for today’s upper-middle-class youth. What a setup we’ve created for them, how we’ve trained them to be consumers but not earners, to recognize brand names instead of character. What a disservice we’ve done them, and are doing to them.

So, I’ll probably be headed back to the mall next week, but only if the snow continues to fly. I don’t really care to see the Tiffany’s that’s nearly ready to open its doors. I don’t want to be forced to consider how many people will still be making purchases with credit cards to keep up the appearance they’ve created. Maybe some of those fashionable, attractive shoppers have the cash to back it up. I hope so. I hate to think that the whole darned thing might just be a competitive illusion. It’s so soothing for me to go somewhere and be assured of my place in the world.

Seriously? My hope is that you’ll never fall prey to commercialism and consumerism, that you’ll spend only what you have in cash, and that you’ll enjoy a good and grateful Thanksgiving holiday. We truly have so, so much to be thankful for. : )