There are two kinds of people who go to the mall. There is the kind like myself who get drunk off the sales and worship retail therapy. Then there is the kind that adorns the food court, arcades, and music stores like tacky costume jewelry on someone with a gobbler neck. I could avoid the latter rather easily in Wet Seal, where I frequented. They would probably look at me with an eye roll before scampering off to drown themselves in greasy pound inducing pizza and talk about the new death metal CD. However, those were sentiments I would have uttered back in the grade eight when I was convinced that the world was in black and white; losers and the popular kind. I can't honestly say that I'm brimming with sunshine and kindness, but I've humanized a bit.
Usually on these mall outings, I would be accompanied by Hazel. However, today was a bit different. I informed no one of the said outing and decided to go by my lonesome. It was almost surreal. I realize now that when I'm not encased in a flurry of blue and yellow pompom bearers that I have this yearning to be by myself. It's hard to find alone time when people are badgering you with countless demands and expectations. After a rather hectic morning at the local party supply store, I needed retail therapy to aid in giving me the relaxation I desperately craved.
The mid-winter dance was scheduled for three weeks after this coming Friday. Naturally, I had been a part of the dance committee which was headed by Ashley. She had put Emma Nelson and me in charge of decorations. I still can't begin to fathom why in the world Emma would have considered joining something that didn't involve saving some bizarre species of a Malaysian turtle. She claimed that she needed more activities for her college transcript to be deemed acceptable in her book and I decided it would be wise not to pry into the boring world of Emma Nelson. But it wasn't Emma that made the outing unbelievably unbearable. For once, I was not subjected to her ramblings about what kind of trees the invitations should be processed from. Instead I point the finger of blame at Ash for making the trip a living hell. It all started out simple, Ash decided to tag along with us to be the overseer of our shopping trip. I don't honestly know why, considering the fact that I was perfectly capable of forcing Emma to buy the decorations that I thought would illuminate the mood and theme of the dance best. But as Ash and I searched among the luau decorations and Emma had scampered off to either go to the bathroom or look at table clothes, memories came flooding back to Ash about the ninth grade end of the year dance. Our trip down memory lane continued with Ash making a string of bitter comments about the local incarnation of Satan as Emma came back with a set of table cloths in hand. It was an endless cycle of bashing that just got so redundant after a while. Needless to say, I stormed off into my car after everything was paid for and cranked up Katy Rose as I treated myself to a Virginia Slim and headed onto the mall in search of retail therapy. Did they not know I had a completely atrocious fight with Spinner on Friday night?
I still don't know whether compulsive shopping is better than having a god awful nicotine addiction. Both of them cost you tons of money. However, I needed something like an addiction in my horribly monotonous life. Sure, to the rest of the deluded population of Degrassi Community School, I was perceived to have this marvelously exciting life fit for tabloids. That just goes to show how completely easy it is to keep up an image of that of an a-list celebrity. Well, easy for me, anyway. There are some people that can't even keep up one single image. For me, I'm continually changing between images at the top of a hat. At home, I'm the prized daughter who is placed upon an altar of perfection while being worshipped. At school, I'm brimming with enthusiasm towards all things that are related to the spirit squad while taking time out of my oh-so busy social schedule to belittle the masses below me. At church, I'm a bundle of joy who partakes in charity events by the force of my parents. In actuality, I'm a chain smoking seventeen year old overflowing with narcissism and drowning in it. I'm probably doomed to look like I stepped out of one of those anti-drug commercials, wrapped in wrinkly skin and cancer. However, to let the entire world know this wouldn't be the smartest idea in the world. Then the whole game of pretending would lose its fun because there would be no need for pretending. Therefore, we can't let the world get a hold of that tidbit of information.
Everything seems to be a routine lately. I mean, there is no such thing as excitement anymore. I go through these same motions every single day. Sure, there are these completely anal people who have a set routine they follow every day. But last time I checked, I wasn't one of them. Maybe that's how the whole smoking thing started, for excitement. I mean, nothing spells excitement like carrying around an oxygen tank when I'm eighty.
So, here I am in a pool of pink in the Macy's dressing room. I looked like a gob of stretched up bubble gum smeared on a park side bench, silently waiting to ruin someone's pair of pants. However, there was no way I was going to look like this in public but I couldn't part with these pink corduroy pants. They fit like a glove and plus they were the best shade of pink ever created by man. So naturally, I had to piss fifty five dollars and ninety nine cents of my paycheck from Dale's Ice Cream Parlor on Thirteenth Street on these.
After working my way out of the pink corduroy flare pants and into my dark antique denim hip huggers, I sauntered into the core of the dressing room. Doors that led to the places where people made crucial fashion decisions engulfed me. It smelled like some cheap Ralph Lauren perfume knock-off mixed with hints of either mango or tangerine body spray. My nose was getting choked by these atrocious smells, so I quickly made my way from the dressing rooms and towards the cash register near the misses' career apparel section.
A woman with ginger colored hair adorned the counter as she babbled on her store phone to the manager or someone. I didn't really pay attention, considering my attention was being averted to the throbbing sensation in my hand. I hated the torture that accompanied going to a buy two get one free shoe sale. Why must I be punished for shopping smart? I swear, the world is seriously going insane. She informed me of the price as I fished out money from the depths of my purse. I tapped my foot impatiently; I wanted to get out of this place. Sure, the mall had this mood that I had grown to love, but nicotine cravings do not care about that. They just want to be fulfilled whenever they please. Sounds kind of like me. Funny that.
After receiving my change and my paid for pants in a Macy's bag, I trudged out of the store and entered the mall. It was overflowing with people who were chattering about with their families, significant others, friends, or shopping buddies. People who were by themselves in such a social location tended to stand out completely. However, I was completely and utterly accustomed to doing just that in a positive way. People tend to get the idea in their minds that going to the mall by yourself must mean you are a leper who no one would dare accompany to the mall. I just needed to get out of here, have a smoke, and go home and celebrate conquering great sales.
I passed by many mall attractions as I looked for that sacred mall elevator. When I was younger, I thought of it as a ride. I would often wave at the people below but none of them ever really saw me, save the occasional mall dwelling pervert. Now I know that it's just this clear vessel that transports us from top to bottom or from bottom to top. That kind of just sucks the fun out of elevator rides.
Finally, I arrived at the opaque elevator. It wasn't the mall that had those rides I had cherished in my childhood. I couldn't wave to the masses lining the cold linoleum floors, searching for a new outfit or a cure for boredom. It wasn't a complete tragedy. I would manage. I stepped inside the elevator with my assortment of bags in hand. Oh fun, it looked as though I wasn't going to be alone on my ride to the bottom floor.