Assault At the Mall

Mustered up some strength--or whatever it is I gather up to go there -- and headed to the mall. I used to enjoy a trip there now and then, but it's had a "re-do" in recent years and is twice the size and many more times "upscale" than it was when I used to enjoy walking the corridors, and shopping at some familiar department stores.  They didn't ask my permission, but they really changed things on me. And even if a store's name is the same, the familiar inside is gone. I can't figure out where anything is, and it sure seems geared for the "under-35" crowd. The music has changed too. At B*lks, someone used to play a grand piano on the second floor--its delightful sound filtering throughout the store, but this day I could not help but notice a new, jarrring, driving beat kind of "music." It didn't fit as I walked past the lovely jewelry and perfume counters--at least in my humble opinion.

Even the days I "dress" just to go to this mall, I feel like the salespeople (who can't be any higher economically than I am) look  right through my middle class "dress" and know I don't really belong there, and treat me so. It's an odd feeling.

I sense a big disorientation there now, like a feeling of being lost. I have to "let go" the desire to figure out where I am. "Let's see, is this where Sears use to be?"  "What about the old food court? I'm sure it was near these four pillars." Let the old mall go ... to be what it wants to be.  After all, most everything else in life seems to be changing (rapidly, by the way).  

So there I was the other day, venturing forth between two "flagship" department stores. I can't even remember what I was looking for, but of course I didn't find it.  On my way back to the original store, through which I hoped to make a fast exit to my car, I passed by some of those small, sometimes irritating kiosks.  At one, as I tried to glide by quickly, a young woman approached me with a miniature dollop of hand cream in a small cup. "Please you need to try this ..." as she forced it, yes, forced it into my hand. I kept moving, but not fast enough to miss hearing, "Are those your nails? Oh my  G___." I felt assaulted as I kept moving, and she kept talking. I'm sure this young thing didn't get that good a look at my unpolished but trim nails (and by the way, if they weren't mine, who else's would they be?)

Watch your step, dear, I thought to myself.  I immediately mentally defended my, yes, aging hands with their signs of bygone glorious days in the sun. After all, these hands, along with their nails, are practical hands. 

They scrub pots, wash dishes, rake leaves, mow the lawn, cook meals, type on the computer, crochet blankets, write letters, change 20 baby diapers in a day, foam in and out of countless hospital rooms--and, more. (My guess is that the most her hands get roughed up is by punching her calculator or texting on her phone.)

 

Increasing twinges of arthritis make my hands even more endearing to me. They are what they are, so please don't attack how they, or their nails,  look.

Photos: my mother's beautiful, caring hands on the right, and my busy hands on the left. Above: my shadow last spring, pausing at this sign, probably wondering what there is to watch out for.