As a toddler and preschooler, there was a given: being taken to the mall provided infinite opportunities for my bottom to be swatted. I nagged, tugged, and dragged my feet. I told my mommy 217 times (on average) that I was bored. I crawled under the circular clothing racks, because my imagination viewed them as forts and not as practical devices for practical adults. My older brother acted like an angel in front of my parents to make me look that much worse, only to prod me like a cattle when he knew they weren't looking.
Unavoidably, during that period between 11:30 and 1:00 on Sunday afternoon, my dad would utter those dreaded words: "Just wait until you get home."
I knew what it meant, and he never bluffed. He never forgot. I would sit quietly in the back seat for the next 30 minutes (what felt like 5 hours) knowing what was coming to me. This was what the mall meant to me.
Shortly after I received my first set of wheels, I grew stupid -- I began liking the mall. The mall became associated with spending my own money, unsupervised tom foolery, and meeting rival-school girls that didn't know I was a complete tool. It felt like anything was possible at the mall.
Some seven years later, I stopped cold turkey. I remember my 23-year-old self shopping with my work buddies and taking my girlfriend out for dinner...and then it ceased -- all of it -- seemingly out of nowhere.
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Our therapist at work has resigned for a better opportunity. With all the uncertainty in residential care, our kids are having to part with one more caring person in their lives. As a going away gift, the therapist decided to meet all seven at the mall to Build-A-Bear.
Lucky me...
My mind immediately did its thing as we entered the crowded parking lot: "Don't these people have anything better to do? Who returns items two days after Christmas? I thought the economy was bad and people didn't have money to spend. How are we going to find a place to park a 12-passenger van while the girls maintain their patience?"
[It occurred to me later in the evening that these people didn't have anything better to do and may not have been spending money. It was slushy and cold outside, and an indoor Indiana mall is the closest thing to a winter park.]
As we entered the mall, I immediately identified my insecurity; I found this ironic, since I had visited the mall to run from my insecurities as a teenager. Mall couples walked the aisles two by two. Younger teenage couples held hands. Young married couples led their perfect toddler children. I'm not a huge fan of winter, but I adore winter attire. Everyone looked beautiful and happy, and I was feeling ghastly.
We made our way to the Build-A-Bear workshop, and I tried to fake a smile as the girls picked out their bears. We stood in a long line, and the girls were surprisingly calm about it, so I had some time to peer around the store. I caught my co-worker's eye and whispered an impulsive thought:
"I want a penguin."
She shook her head in affirmation and approached the therapist with our plan. If the two of us felt out of place as middle-aged singles in a museum of couples, we could briefly identify with the children. I sat next to our girls on the floor as I inserted the penguin's heart and pledged to love him. I filled out Petey's birth certificate and browsed the overpriced clothing that would suit him. All that was missing was the circular rack in which we would play.
I woke up this morning and discovered Petey in the box, wondering what drove me to spend $17 on a stuffed penguin for myself. Perhaps I'm passing through another stage of grief: Petey representing everything in life that I feel I've missed. What I feel is emotionally underdeveloped; I don't understand how a 33-year-old is supposed to feel and act. I've spent my entire adulthood working with young people, and the longer I'm at it, the more I feel like I'm wasting away. Young people do not keep me young: they only force me to acknowledge the distance between myself and a more appealing version.
Sorry, I didn't plan on being mopey in this post -- it sort of happened. I think I'll stay away from the mall.
3 comments:
The first thing that went through my head after reading this: "sheesh, why don't you just marry me already (lol)". I know this isn't quite the way the Lord does things, but I thought I'd share it with you anyway. Petey sounds like a fantastic companion!
I raise my glass once again to the unparalleled boldness of the anonymous blogger ;)
In all seriousness, the first thing passing through my head is how historically easy it has been to present myself favorably on paper (or HTML), so much that I didn't bother starting a second round of online dating, because I have full confidence in my ability to create a likeable profile. Marriage requires an entirely different level of perseverance.
My second thought was to respond with a post about "looking good on paper," but I realized how frustrating and condescending it would be to those who enjoy my idiosyncrasies in real life; thus I decided to guard myself from the lengthy comments that would remind me of this.
I'll adhere to the sound judgment of my third thought and merely say, "Thank you." :)
I'm trying to think of something to write that would even be relevant to these comments and post.
well, I enjoyed the post, and your tinge of mopey-ness. It was refreshing.
I am really glad you bought a penguin, of all animals to buy and put a heart into... that is one that I think would be fun. I have honestly, never been in the build-a-bear workshop, and can proudly say- have not stepped foot in a mall this season :)
And Anthony to your response... touché... that was a great response- "thank you." Way to be.
And to you, anonymous- way to be bold. I wish I could be bolder like that.
Hope you're having a good week friend!
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