Mall Rats

Visiting the mall is like volunteering for sensory terrorism. Start with the most boring conversation ever ("I can't BELIEVE I got those jeans for only $49!!!!"), multiply it by two thousand, throw in the scent of freshly-slathered pretzels topped with two tons of Axe , add too many middle-aged women wearing spray-on denim pants and toss it all in a light French dressing of commercialism. --Voila! Like a Bishop's Buffet of Butter-Coated Buffoonery!

I wonder if an autistic person has ever enjoyed visiting the mall. Seriously.

So, this afternoon, I spent a half hour at the mall, hanging out with a jumble of nervous men. We were loitering just outside of Victoria's Secret, trying not to read the mixed messages plastered on the piles of neon-colored underwear heaped on a nearby display table.

Have you ever spent any time outside a Victoria's Secret with a bevy of bumbling men? I found it rather fascinating.

I kept scanning the store, watching for any signs that Allison was still alive. Along the way, I became fascinated with the men who did dare to enter the hallowed, hollowed-out harbor that is Victoria's Secret. Sex dripping from its life-sized posters, scantily-clad ribs poking out everywhere, Victoria's Secret is not for the faint of heart. Or for an undisciplined teenaged boy.

By the time Allison signaled for me and my plastic, I said goodbye to my new friend, an older gentleman who claimed to have a few granddaughters shopping at the store. Yeah, right.

Inside the store, I felt immediately vulnerable, like a Russian spy with a lousy fake mustache, certain that I was about to be found out. I tried to keep my eyes to the floor, but I couldn't prevent the sleazy, silky messages from slinking their way up to my eyeballs. "Private property!" "HOT!" "Do Not Pass Go!" (I just made that one up)...

And then, I bumped into a bra display , causing about 10 cups of sugar to fall to the floor. I gathered them up as quickly as possible while Allison did her best to not know me.

Finally, we made our way to the front register (which is actually in back, which, I suppose kind of makes sense). The lady asked if I'd found everything and I didn't even laugh!--Go, Jane! Then she asked for my phone number and, as usual, I gave her a fake one (sorry, East High!).

As we left, I high fived my new friend and once again wondered to myself what, exactly, is the appeal of heading to the mall.