-Malleficia-
Is anything as soul-crushing as a desicated mall come Christmas time?
To me, the experience of mall browsing while listening to tinny versions of "Santa Claus is coming to town" is the same as having your teeth pulled by your editor while your dentist marks your story with a red pen.
At least in a large, profitable mall, I look like the only shopper who isn't enraptured by the season. In a bustling crowd, the excitement of spending too much on distant cousins' children only seen at grandparent funerals can be transformed into an event. Who's to say that Black Friday shoppers wouldn't have been equally at home rioting in a brazilian soccer stadium, or fighting bikers at a Stones Concert? Gather enough Christmas cheer in one place, and enthusiasm is bound to turn to frenzy.
But in this former steel town, extra elbow room has turned every shopper into an isolated pocket of gloom, most especially the one shopper buying a birthday gift for some advent nemontemi who made the mistake of being born this season.
After gliding through stacks of sweaters in one department, and Atlantic City glitz in another, I strolled out into the open promenade with the other downcast shoppers. I figured I might have hit paydirt with one of the unconquered-by-christmas craft stores, particularly when I noticed women the birthday girl's age eyeing the merchandise.
But as I made a circuit of the shelves, I tried to imagine facing the recipient on the birthday itself. How would I defend this gift? If the gift has to be defended at all, it must be the wrong choice.
The birthday girl and these women are not so similar, I decided. Since I have nothing else to show for the hours spent wandering and window shopping, this can only mean that I don't know what I'm doing, or who I'm shopping for.
At long last I found two suitable items in the mens' section of Boscov's. I didn't realize it was the mens' section until I saw the receipt, and I didn't realize until then that I was shopping for a tomboy.
Sorry, Mom.
To me, the experience of mall browsing while listening to tinny versions of "Santa Claus is coming to town" is the same as having your teeth pulled by your editor while your dentist marks your story with a red pen.
At least in a large, profitable mall, I look like the only shopper who isn't enraptured by the season. In a bustling crowd, the excitement of spending too much on distant cousins' children only seen at grandparent funerals can be transformed into an event. Who's to say that Black Friday shoppers wouldn't have been equally at home rioting in a brazilian soccer stadium, or fighting bikers at a Stones Concert? Gather enough Christmas cheer in one place, and enthusiasm is bound to turn to frenzy.
But in this former steel town, extra elbow room has turned every shopper into an isolated pocket of gloom, most especially the one shopper buying a birthday gift for some advent nemontemi who made the mistake of being born this season.
After gliding through stacks of sweaters in one department, and Atlantic City glitz in another, I strolled out into the open promenade with the other downcast shoppers. I figured I might have hit paydirt with one of the unconquered-by-christmas craft stores, particularly when I noticed women the birthday girl's age eyeing the merchandise.
But as I made a circuit of the shelves, I tried to imagine facing the recipient on the birthday itself. How would I defend this gift? If the gift has to be defended at all, it must be the wrong choice.
The birthday girl and these women are not so similar, I decided. Since I have nothing else to show for the hours spent wandering and window shopping, this can only mean that I don't know what I'm doing, or who I'm shopping for.
At long last I found two suitable items in the mens' section of Boscov's. I didn't realize it was the mens' section until I saw the receipt, and I didn't realize until then that I was shopping for a tomboy.
Sorry, Mom.
posted by Benedict | 12:19 PM
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