The entire absurdity of it all struck me as I stood by the You-are-Here map.
Over to the left I saw two girls taunting another girl over the clothes she was wearing. To my right, a mother was dragging her
three-year old by the hand, pushing her 8-month old in a baby carriage, and arguing with a sullen teenager of indeterminate gender
as he typed furiously on the keypad of his cell phone. A little beyond the harried mother was this scary dude in a trench coat who
was avidly watching the ferrets in the window of a pet store. I standing among strangers, ready to spend all my money while
walking back-and-forth in a precisely controlled climate and listening to the non-threatening sounds of music that I almost, but
could not quite, recognize.
There were thousands of people with me, each acting out their unwritten roles while walking the mall. Is this a metaphor for
modern life, I wondered?
And that’s when I realized my ultimate purpose when I go to this crucible of social interaction and runaway consumption.
Do you see the guy trailing after his wife as she chooses new clothes?
See the dude who looks resigned, beyond frustration, far past useless emotions such as anger, the man with the expression that
asks, “Am I in hell?”
Welcome to my world.
Occasionally Mrs. Chef convinces me that I must go with her to the mall so that we can buy some new clothes. I must suffer from
amnesia, because as soon as I get to the mall I suddenly remember that I hate shopping, I hate malls, and I generally learn to hate
the entire human race whenever I walk into one of those places.
When I’m alone and I buy clothes, I go into the nearest store that has a parking lot, try on three pair of pants until I figure out
what size I wear, buy a couple of pairs of that size, snag a few t-shirts as I head to the checkout, and I’m done.
Takes me fifteen minutes, tops.
But not when I go with Mrs. Chef.
Watching her decide what to buy is like watching a three-year old with a television remote.
I have seen her try on 15 different outfits at the mall and then walk away in disgust because the multi-billion dollar fashion industry,
with tens of thousands of people working 24/7 to create endless variations of ways to cover up the naughty parts of the human
body, can’t produce anything that she is willing to wear.
I have decided it must be a strange curse designed to keep us within the confines of this so-called consumer’s paradise.
Like Sisyphus in Hades, we trudge from one store to the next as she tries on and rejects outfit after outfit, becoming more
disgusted with women’s fashions and the entire clothing industry as we move along, until she is so mad that the sound of her
grinding teeth is making the mall security guy suspicious. Soon she starts looking for some unlucky sap on which to vent her anger
at the fashion industry. And guess who that is?
If we add the kids into this socioeconomic mix, the experience goes from a simple nightmare to becoming fodder for future
sessions with a family therapist.
I think I will try something new on the next trip to the mall.
Maybe if I just resign myself to the fact that the entire day is shot all to hell, that the next several hours are an utter waste of time,
and that every person you meet at the mall is actually from another planet, then I might retain my sanity. Maybe I’ll put on a set of
headphones, grab a magazine, and just walk and read until Mrs. Chef gets tired of asking me what I think about whatever it is she
has tried on and I keep answering, “Huh? What was that? That looks great, honey.”
Eventually, like getting a root canal, the ordeal must end, and then I will be able leave.
Over to the left I saw two girls taunting another girl over the clothes she was wearing. To my right, a mother was dragging her
three-year old by the hand, pushing her 8-month old in a baby carriage, and arguing with a sullen teenager of indeterminate gender
as he typed furiously on the keypad of his cell phone. A little beyond the harried mother was this scary dude in a trench coat who
was avidly watching the ferrets in the window of a pet store. I standing among strangers, ready to spend all my money while
walking back-and-forth in a precisely controlled climate and listening to the non-threatening sounds of music that I almost, but
could not quite, recognize.
There were thousands of people with me, each acting out their unwritten roles while walking the mall. Is this a metaphor for
modern life, I wondered?
And that’s when I realized my ultimate purpose when I go to this crucible of social interaction and runaway consumption.
Do you see the guy trailing after his wife as she chooses new clothes?
See the dude who looks resigned, beyond frustration, far past useless emotions such as anger, the man with the expression that
asks, “Am I in hell?”
Welcome to my world.
Occasionally Mrs. Chef convinces me that I must go with her to the mall so that we can buy some new clothes. I must suffer from
amnesia, because as soon as I get to the mall I suddenly remember that I hate shopping, I hate malls, and I generally learn to hate
the entire human race whenever I walk into one of those places.
When I’m alone and I buy clothes, I go into the nearest store that has a parking lot, try on three pair of pants until I figure out
what size I wear, buy a couple of pairs of that size, snag a few t-shirts as I head to the checkout, and I’m done.
Takes me fifteen minutes, tops.
But not when I go with Mrs. Chef.
Watching her decide what to buy is like watching a three-year old with a television remote.
I have seen her try on 15 different outfits at the mall and then walk away in disgust because the multi-billion dollar fashion industry,
with tens of thousands of people working 24/7 to create endless variations of ways to cover up the naughty parts of the human
body, can’t produce anything that she is willing to wear.
I have decided it must be a strange curse designed to keep us within the confines of this so-called consumer’s paradise.
Like Sisyphus in Hades, we trudge from one store to the next as she tries on and rejects outfit after outfit, becoming more
disgusted with women’s fashions and the entire clothing industry as we move along, until she is so mad that the sound of her
grinding teeth is making the mall security guy suspicious. Soon she starts looking for some unlucky sap on which to vent her anger
at the fashion industry. And guess who that is?
If we add the kids into this socioeconomic mix, the experience goes from a simple nightmare to becoming fodder for future
sessions with a family therapist.
I think I will try something new on the next trip to the mall.
Maybe if I just resign myself to the fact that the entire day is shot all to hell, that the next several hours are an utter waste of time,
and that every person you meet at the mall is actually from another planet, then I might retain my sanity. Maybe I’ll put on a set of
headphones, grab a magazine, and just walk and read until Mrs. Chef gets tired of asking me what I think about whatever it is she
has tried on and I keep answering, “Huh? What was that? That looks great, honey.”
Eventually, like getting a root canal, the ordeal must end, and then I will be able leave.
I guess the thing you have to do sometimes is just
grit your teeth and endure the pain of a world that
refuses to conform to any standard for comfort and
reasonable behavior.
The other day, I realized that I had become one of
those countless consumers that shuffle around like
an inmate in the prison yard.
But instead of a prison, I was at a shopping mall, a
place filled with obnoxious kids, bewildered adults,
and faceless zombies that wander back and forth
looking at thousands of products that people never
even heard of ten years ago.
grit your teeth and endure the pain of a world that
refuses to conform to any standard for comfort and
reasonable behavior.
The other day, I realized that I had become one of
those countless consumers that shuffle around like
an inmate in the prison yard.
But instead of a prison, I was at a shopping mall, a
place filled with obnoxious kids, bewildered adults,
and faceless zombies that wander back and forth
looking at thousands of products that people never
even heard of ten years ago.
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| For the man who cooks and the women that love him |
WHAT YOU NEED 1 1/4 cups of milk 1 1/4 cups of ice water 1 (6 ounce) can frozen orange juice concentrate 16 ice cubes 1/2 teaspoon of real vanilla extract 1/4 cup of white sugar (or Splenda) WHAT YOU DO Throw all the ingredients into a blender and run it on high until the mixture is smooth. Pour the smoothie into four large glasses and toss in a straw. |