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.
Showing posts with label walking. Show all posts
Showing posts with label walking. Show all posts
Wednesday, March 5, 2014
Wednesday, December 16, 2009
At the meadow
Christmas memories are always littered with the same mental images for me: crowds of people at my parents' home, the tree in the same corner because that's where it fits best, bags of presents stacked under and around it, my grandma "bellied up" to the dining room table, declaring with nearly every large bite that she just doesn't have much of an appetite any more... But for some reason, one Christmas Day stands out more clearly than the rest.
It was an unseasonably warm day, probably in the 60s, clear and mildly sunny. (I was probably in upper elementary school, perhaps 5th or 6th grade; I'm not sure, and it really doesn't matter.) We'd opened all the gifts hours before, had sifted through them multiple times, tried on the clothes, played with the toys, snacked on unhealthy cookies until we were all half sick. And someone had the idea that we should walk to the meadow.
What is the meadow? It is exactly as it sounds, a vast expanse of verdant lushness that sits high atop the hills behind my parents' house. We walked to it a couple of times each year, as I recall, perhaps not quite so often. Mid- to late-spring was the best time to go. It was a bit of a hike, and as summer progressed, the climb took more and more patience and stamina because of the seasonal (and yearly) increase of weeds and scrubby shrubs on the hillside. The path was steep, not even really defined; the effort required that you avoid the grabbing undergrowth, face-slapping branches, and sticky burrs. Lastly, you crossed a dilapidated barbed-wire fence and walked along the side of the hill on a rudimentary road of sorts.
Even when the road ended and you'd gotten to the top, saw the green stretching out before you and thought you'd arrived, you still had some walking to do in order to reach the crest of the highest rounded peak. You trudged along, tired, probably scratched from briars, thirsty if you hadn't remembered to bring some water (I don't recall ever doing so because we knew we could steal a drink from the natural spring on the way back down). You walked some more. You kept your eye on the prize.
Then, you were there. The tip. The pinnacle. The zenith. Boy, was it worth all the trouble.
All the way into the little town you gazed, and you were looking down on the world. There were neighbors' cottages tucked away, more crowded neighborhoods farther away, the big red brick hospital... I think we could even see aspects of the nearby coal mines. You stood atop the world, looking down on creation as the song goes, and you heard nothing. Only the breeze, sometimes rather brisk because you were out of the valley at last. It was heady, to say the least. The descent was more leisurely, of course, being downward-sloping and broken by a cold stream of spring water that spurted from an overflow pipe next to our reservoir.
And that Christmas Day hike was no different. I think I remember it so clearly because it is the only time I recall making the hike in the "off" season. The climb was less taxing because nothing was growing. The view, although more brown, was no less spectacular; in fact, we could see even more of the miniature world that lay far below. There we were, at the end of December, with our light jackets tied around our waists, standing in peace and surrounded by balmy openness. It was as if we'd carried the joy of the day with us, carried it all the way into a misplaced breath of spring. It drifted up from us like a kite, buoyed by light winds and our good spirits, dancing overhead.
Truly a Christmas to cherish.
It was an unseasonably warm day, probably in the 60s, clear and mildly sunny. (I was probably in upper elementary school, perhaps 5th or 6th grade; I'm not sure, and it really doesn't matter.) We'd opened all the gifts hours before, had sifted through them multiple times, tried on the clothes, played with the toys, snacked on unhealthy cookies until we were all half sick. And someone had the idea that we should walk to the meadow.
What is the meadow? It is exactly as it sounds, a vast expanse of verdant lushness that sits high atop the hills behind my parents' house. We walked to it a couple of times each year, as I recall, perhaps not quite so often. Mid- to late-spring was the best time to go. It was a bit of a hike, and as summer progressed, the climb took more and more patience and stamina because of the seasonal (and yearly) increase of weeds and scrubby shrubs on the hillside. The path was steep, not even really defined; the effort required that you avoid the grabbing undergrowth, face-slapping branches, and sticky burrs. Lastly, you crossed a dilapidated barbed-wire fence and walked along the side of the hill on a rudimentary road of sorts.
Even when the road ended and you'd gotten to the top, saw the green stretching out before you and thought you'd arrived, you still had some walking to do in order to reach the crest of the highest rounded peak. You trudged along, tired, probably scratched from briars, thirsty if you hadn't remembered to bring some water (I don't recall ever doing so because we knew we could steal a drink from the natural spring on the way back down). You walked some more. You kept your eye on the prize.
Then, you were there. The tip. The pinnacle. The zenith. Boy, was it worth all the trouble.
All the way into the little town you gazed, and you were looking down on the world. There were neighbors' cottages tucked away, more crowded neighborhoods farther away, the big red brick hospital... I think we could even see aspects of the nearby coal mines. You stood atop the world, looking down on creation as the song goes, and you heard nothing. Only the breeze, sometimes rather brisk because you were out of the valley at last. It was heady, to say the least. The descent was more leisurely, of course, being downward-sloping and broken by a cold stream of spring water that spurted from an overflow pipe next to our reservoir.
And that Christmas Day hike was no different. I think I remember it so clearly because it is the only time I recall making the hike in the "off" season. The climb was less taxing because nothing was growing. The view, although more brown, was no less spectacular; in fact, we could see even more of the miniature world that lay far below. There we were, at the end of December, with our light jackets tied around our waists, standing in peace and surrounded by balmy openness. It was as if we'd carried the joy of the day with us, carried it all the way into a misplaced breath of spring. It drifted up from us like a kite, buoyed by light winds and our good spirits, dancing overhead.
Truly a Christmas to cherish.
Sunday, June 7, 2009
Straight outta Seinfeld
There are many aspects to Pittsburgh area living. There are disadvantages and disadvantages, opportunities to grow and learn as well as opportunities to have your purse stolen or be harangued by a crazy person. You can drive past the theatre (that’s “re” at the end, not “er”—as IF) and be surrounded by the cultured and privileged few in furs and heels, but you can also drive past a pyrohi festival or a bunch of people tailgating somewhere and see the very common masses.
Saturday was a day for the masses, I’m afraid.
I planned to meet my gal pal and take a nice, long walk after lunchtime. We consulted our schedules, consulted various other schedules (OK, no baseball game, we’re safe), and decided the North Shore would be an optimum place; it’s in the middle, there’s a fairly new bike and walking path, the views are lovely but we’d avoid the nonsense of parking too close to the big arts festival.
We confirmed the time and I began the short drive. Why so much traffic? Boy, was the arts fest really this popular? We always go on weekdays… I continued on my trek, and then the cell phone rang. My friend was sitting in the Fort Pitt tunnel, not sure why… We decided to keep the plan but see what developed. Five minutes later, it all became clear to me. People were partying in the stadium parking lots, grills going full tilt, country music blaring, there were hundreds of Y108 signs (a local country station—no, I’m not a listener)… It suddenly hit me that there was a B I G concert today. I had a vague recollection of seeing Kenny Chesney’s name in the paper that week. Bet it’s him, I thought.
I called my pal, who still sat hopelessly in the bowels of the tunnel. I told her the sad news while she watched the other, non-concert-bound lane move past her, and we made the revised decision to hit the South Side instead. North, South, who cares? They both have trails now, and on Saturday, only one neighborhood featured a bunch of sweaty, scantily clad people drinking heavily and singing along to a country crooner.
(On a side note, I’m biting my tongue here because I could easily write an entire column on the hideous nature of many concert-attendee outfits. I saw far too much flesh that should not be revealed in the light of day. I saw cute ensembles that had to be 2 sizes too small for the unfortunate people wearing them. I saw sizeable portions of female rears peeking out, and enough cleavage to swallow a small town, and orange-peel skin gone wild. I won’t go on—there’s no need—but much of what was exposed in those hot, sunny lots was darned unpretty. Sadly, no one there was peddling any shame.)
So, on I drove, south this time, crossing two more bridges and finding my slow but steady way to the new meeting place. A-ha! A parallel parking place, with time left on the meter—I snagged it, slapped sunscreen on my pasty arms and legs, and scurried to meet the friend. We hit a restroom (always a must after 45 minutes of car time) and then found trail access and got moving. It’s a decent trail, albeit a tad hard to follow at times and poorly marked; we talked and visited and stepped out of the way of the hundreds of mad bikers speeding past us like the slow-moving scum we were. After what seemed like a mile, we surmised we were close to the busy part of Carson Street. Hey, let’s leave the trail for a bit, hit Carson, and get a water. What a great idea!
We came up right by Bruegger’s, and popped in to accomplish our simple task. Not so simple, apparently. Three people were in front of us in line to pay; they were together, had their order on the counter, and the front one, the only fellow among them (I use the term loosely), was throwing a hissy fit right there. Yes, I mean hissy fit. I was more masculine than this guy. He and his two older female companions were dark-skinned, probably Hispanic; as his voice rose, his accent became more pronounced.
“I am going to make a scene and be rude as s*** because he threw a pickle at me!” This spoken in the petulant manner of a wronged man-child. “I’m not paying for this sandwich because I didn’t want the pickle and he put it on there anyway!”
Now the manager (a.k.a. alleged pickle-thrower) stepped up to the cash register and stood next to the girl who was cashing folks out. “I'm the manager, and you cannot use foul language here! That is unacceptable and you need to leave the store! Please leave here right now.” What made the whole exchange so comical was the fact that as effeminate as the tantrum boy was, the poor store manager was every bit as much so. One was dark and street-wise; the other was slight and fair and, at this point, absolutely indignant at the behavior exhibited by the Mexican thug.
“You need to apologize to me for throwing the pickle!”
“I did not throw a pickle at you! You’re crazy!”
As they continued to shout at each other with increasing emotion, the other folks in the store looked around in disbelief, and my friend and I looked at each other, stifling laughter at the absurdity and wondering silently if we should take our water search elsewhere. The cashier had stood without comment next to the manager, but now she motioned for us to step forward while the argument went on. There we stood, paying for a bottle of water while the crazy border family stood right next to us. It was an awkward moment; I could sense the acute embarrassment of the two women. Finally, as the girl made change for us, the ladies turned and left the store, minus their sandwiches and their spoiled girly man. We followed them shortly, and as we exited, the crazy Mexican guy tried to coerce us into involvement in the bedlam. “He just admitted he threw the pickle. Did anyone hear him admit that?”
I could feel him looking at us as we passed, and I said, “No.”
He began to rant again, and the thought crossed my mind that perhaps he was unhinged or armed or something, but by then I was reaching for the door handle and we were stepping into the bright, logical sun. As we made our way back toward the trail, we started to talk about the ridiculous scene we’d witnessed, but my observant friend hushed me when she saw we were walking right past the two women who’d fled the place in shame. There they stood, waiting at the car, avoiding our gazes just as we avoided theirs.
Yet the beautiful day took away our need to rehash the silliness. We talked briefly about how thankful we were that we don’t have that kind of anger, what a shame it is that young, green people end up in management positions and have to deal with such moments, and—most of all—how amazing it is that God loves everyone. And then, we were back on the trail and moving on to better, more productive topics of conversation.
You see how multifaceted this city is? Where else could you get stuck in a huge city traffic jam but be surrounded by people wearing ten-gallon hats, micro-minis and boots? Where else could you park in front of BCBG Maxazaria, then practically get knocked to the ground by people zipping along on bikes in outdoor gear? Where else could you walk past picnics and filch blackberries from wild bushes while gazing across the river at giant coal barges, expensive sport boats, and jet skis? And where else could you step in to buy a bottle of water and instead experience the drama of witnessing two flamboyant young men shout at and threaten each other over what may or may not have been a thrown pickle?
Quite a day, all in all. And the weather was wonderful—thankfully, it was only stormy in that bagel shop.
Saturday was a day for the masses, I’m afraid.
I planned to meet my gal pal and take a nice, long walk after lunchtime. We consulted our schedules, consulted various other schedules (OK, no baseball game, we’re safe), and decided the North Shore would be an optimum place; it’s in the middle, there’s a fairly new bike and walking path, the views are lovely but we’d avoid the nonsense of parking too close to the big arts festival.
We confirmed the time and I began the short drive. Why so much traffic? Boy, was the arts fest really this popular? We always go on weekdays… I continued on my trek, and then the cell phone rang. My friend was sitting in the Fort Pitt tunnel, not sure why… We decided to keep the plan but see what developed. Five minutes later, it all became clear to me. People were partying in the stadium parking lots, grills going full tilt, country music blaring, there were hundreds of Y108 signs (a local country station—no, I’m not a listener)… It suddenly hit me that there was a B I G concert today. I had a vague recollection of seeing Kenny Chesney’s name in the paper that week. Bet it’s him, I thought.
I called my pal, who still sat hopelessly in the bowels of the tunnel. I told her the sad news while she watched the other, non-concert-bound lane move past her, and we made the revised decision to hit the South Side instead. North, South, who cares? They both have trails now, and on Saturday, only one neighborhood featured a bunch of sweaty, scantily clad people drinking heavily and singing along to a country crooner.
(On a side note, I’m biting my tongue here because I could easily write an entire column on the hideous nature of many concert-attendee outfits. I saw far too much flesh that should not be revealed in the light of day. I saw cute ensembles that had to be 2 sizes too small for the unfortunate people wearing them. I saw sizeable portions of female rears peeking out, and enough cleavage to swallow a small town, and orange-peel skin gone wild. I won’t go on—there’s no need—but much of what was exposed in those hot, sunny lots was darned unpretty. Sadly, no one there was peddling any shame.)
So, on I drove, south this time, crossing two more bridges and finding my slow but steady way to the new meeting place. A-ha! A parallel parking place, with time left on the meter—I snagged it, slapped sunscreen on my pasty arms and legs, and scurried to meet the friend. We hit a restroom (always a must after 45 minutes of car time) and then found trail access and got moving. It’s a decent trail, albeit a tad hard to follow at times and poorly marked; we talked and visited and stepped out of the way of the hundreds of mad bikers speeding past us like the slow-moving scum we were. After what seemed like a mile, we surmised we were close to the busy part of Carson Street. Hey, let’s leave the trail for a bit, hit Carson, and get a water. What a great idea!
We came up right by Bruegger’s, and popped in to accomplish our simple task. Not so simple, apparently. Three people were in front of us in line to pay; they were together, had their order on the counter, and the front one, the only fellow among them (I use the term loosely), was throwing a hissy fit right there. Yes, I mean hissy fit. I was more masculine than this guy. He and his two older female companions were dark-skinned, probably Hispanic; as his voice rose, his accent became more pronounced.
“I am going to make a scene and be rude as s*** because he threw a pickle at me!” This spoken in the petulant manner of a wronged man-child. “I’m not paying for this sandwich because I didn’t want the pickle and he put it on there anyway!”
Now the manager (a.k.a. alleged pickle-thrower) stepped up to the cash register and stood next to the girl who was cashing folks out. “I'm the manager, and you cannot use foul language here! That is unacceptable and you need to leave the store! Please leave here right now.” What made the whole exchange so comical was the fact that as effeminate as the tantrum boy was, the poor store manager was every bit as much so. One was dark and street-wise; the other was slight and fair and, at this point, absolutely indignant at the behavior exhibited by the Mexican thug.
“You need to apologize to me for throwing the pickle!”
“I did not throw a pickle at you! You’re crazy!”
As they continued to shout at each other with increasing emotion, the other folks in the store looked around in disbelief, and my friend and I looked at each other, stifling laughter at the absurdity and wondering silently if we should take our water search elsewhere. The cashier had stood without comment next to the manager, but now she motioned for us to step forward while the argument went on. There we stood, paying for a bottle of water while the crazy border family stood right next to us. It was an awkward moment; I could sense the acute embarrassment of the two women. Finally, as the girl made change for us, the ladies turned and left the store, minus their sandwiches and their spoiled girly man. We followed them shortly, and as we exited, the crazy Mexican guy tried to coerce us into involvement in the bedlam. “He just admitted he threw the pickle. Did anyone hear him admit that?”
I could feel him looking at us as we passed, and I said, “No.”
He began to rant again, and the thought crossed my mind that perhaps he was unhinged or armed or something, but by then I was reaching for the door handle and we were stepping into the bright, logical sun. As we made our way back toward the trail, we started to talk about the ridiculous scene we’d witnessed, but my observant friend hushed me when she saw we were walking right past the two women who’d fled the place in shame. There they stood, waiting at the car, avoiding our gazes just as we avoided theirs.
Yet the beautiful day took away our need to rehash the silliness. We talked briefly about how thankful we were that we don’t have that kind of anger, what a shame it is that young, green people end up in management positions and have to deal with such moments, and—most of all—how amazing it is that God loves everyone. And then, we were back on the trail and moving on to better, more productive topics of conversation.
You see how multifaceted this city is? Where else could you get stuck in a huge city traffic jam but be surrounded by people wearing ten-gallon hats, micro-minis and boots? Where else could you park in front of BCBG Maxazaria, then practically get knocked to the ground by people zipping along on bikes in outdoor gear? Where else could you walk past picnics and filch blackberries from wild bushes while gazing across the river at giant coal barges, expensive sport boats, and jet skis? And where else could you step in to buy a bottle of water and instead experience the drama of witnessing two flamboyant young men shout at and threaten each other over what may or may not have been a thrown pickle?
Quite a day, all in all. And the weather was wonderful—thankfully, it was only stormy in that bagel shop.
Sunday, December 28, 2008
A portrait of pals
I’ve seen them around many times, always walking along Babcock Boulevard. I’ll be driving by, and they’ll be making their way on foot. I always get a good look at them, because there’s never much of a sidewalk in the spaces they frequent; Babcock is lined with many necessary but unattractive industries, all of which seem to sneak right up to the edge of the road.
The short one is a man, slightly bandy-legged, usually wearing a scruffy coat, broken jeans, and nondescript work boots. I couldn’t tell you his facial features, because he often wears a baseball cap that obscures his details. There’s nothing hanging out the back of the cap, so I figure the fellow is either short-haired or tucks it up under the hat.
The tall one is a dog. A huge, rangy, all-black dog of indiscriminate breed, with the longest canine legs I’ve ever seen. The dog’s head sort of resembles a Great Dane’s—although this dog isn’t quite as sleek as that breed—and the dog’s gigantic face easily comes up to the guy’s bicep. They walk side-by-side, not hurrying, not tarrying, simply traveling with purpose. The dog is always leashed, and I’ve never seen him fight it or strain against it; like many large, mature dogs, he is confident and calm.
When I passed them today, the guy was seated beside the road on something—I’m not sure what—and the big beast was seated in the dirt next to him. Sitting like that, they were practically the same height. And the man was stroking the dog’s ears, and the dog was loving it, tongue lolling a bit, eyes half-closed.
It made me wonder where they live, and whether they walk for fun or because they have no choice. I’ve never seen them hauling big bags of dog food (or anything else for that matter), so I’m guessing the man must have a vehicle, since the dog looks healthy and well-cared for. I suppose the walks must be for the dog’s benefit. The beast certainly appears to be a dog that could walk on and on and on without tiring.
Are they best friends out of necessity? Did one find the other by accident, or was the relationship sought intentionally? Was the dog a tiny puppy once, and then metamorphosed into its current behemoth state? Did that smallish fellow have any idea of the size and appetite that would accompany the grown animal? Does the dog stretch out at the bottom of the bed and then, by morning, move up to claim a pillow, or is he relegated to his own doggy area on the floor?
The details don’t matter. They are pals, steadfast and true. At least in my mind.
The short one is a man, slightly bandy-legged, usually wearing a scruffy coat, broken jeans, and nondescript work boots. I couldn’t tell you his facial features, because he often wears a baseball cap that obscures his details. There’s nothing hanging out the back of the cap, so I figure the fellow is either short-haired or tucks it up under the hat.
The tall one is a dog. A huge, rangy, all-black dog of indiscriminate breed, with the longest canine legs I’ve ever seen. The dog’s head sort of resembles a Great Dane’s—although this dog isn’t quite as sleek as that breed—and the dog’s gigantic face easily comes up to the guy’s bicep. They walk side-by-side, not hurrying, not tarrying, simply traveling with purpose. The dog is always leashed, and I’ve never seen him fight it or strain against it; like many large, mature dogs, he is confident and calm.
When I passed them today, the guy was seated beside the road on something—I’m not sure what—and the big beast was seated in the dirt next to him. Sitting like that, they were practically the same height. And the man was stroking the dog’s ears, and the dog was loving it, tongue lolling a bit, eyes half-closed.
It made me wonder where they live, and whether they walk for fun or because they have no choice. I’ve never seen them hauling big bags of dog food (or anything else for that matter), so I’m guessing the man must have a vehicle, since the dog looks healthy and well-cared for. I suppose the walks must be for the dog’s benefit. The beast certainly appears to be a dog that could walk on and on and on without tiring.
Are they best friends out of necessity? Did one find the other by accident, or was the relationship sought intentionally? Was the dog a tiny puppy once, and then metamorphosed into its current behemoth state? Did that smallish fellow have any idea of the size and appetite that would accompany the grown animal? Does the dog stretch out at the bottom of the bed and then, by morning, move up to claim a pillow, or is he relegated to his own doggy area on the floor?
The details don’t matter. They are pals, steadfast and true. At least in my mind.
Tuesday, November 25, 2008
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. : )
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. : )
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