”Witcha” in the mall
Benjamin’s pretty good at saying my name now. Early this morning (that kid gets up at 6:30!) he stood outside my door and bellowed at the top of his lungs: ”WITCHA!!” Well, he expected me to come out and play with him, but ”Witcha” was still sleeping. Not gonna happen, kid.
Actually, maybe I’ll start calling myself that. Witcha’s a pretty cool name.
I was at the mall today, so I now have the authority to conclude that fall’s colors are maroon, orange and green, all mixed together in horrendous Marimekko patterns. Owowowow. I look at a bright maroon-and-pink towel fastened with a gigantic button in the middle, and think: ”Isn’t this a clothes store?” However, a closer inspection reveals that this contraption is actually meant to be used as a shirt.
The fact that people choose to spend their money on this is rather traumatic. I try to cheer myself up by imagining what someone would look like wearing it. The problem is, I’m no poker face, so I either make bug-eyes when looking at the clothes or else start laughing out loud. Which gets me some strange looks. This is yet another reason to avoid stores.
When shopping I usually don’t know exactly what it is I’m looking for, but I do know what I don’t want. So my method is as follows. For each item I think: ”Would I be caught dead wearing that?” Once in a while the answer isn’t no, and then I take a second glance. I spy a normal-looking shirt on a hanger and pull it out to see what’s on the front. Uh oh. Hello Kitty. Hang on a sec while I go barf.
I’m also maybe the only one under the age of 80 that can’t tell the difference between a mannequin and a person. I walk into the store, almost bump into someone, and when I look up at the pale and staring face I think ”Whoamygoodness, that lady looks dead!” It takes me a minute before the little lightbulb goes on – a mannequin. Right. I knew that.
Rather obviously I prefer to avoid malls. A frightening ordeal.