Perhaps I shouldn't have been shocked to see all those humans in the mall on an incredibly lovely Sunday afternoon. I would have imagined that they'd rather be at the beach or rollerblading or playing softball with the team from the office. Before passing judgement, I considered that maybe they were there, like me, to get that one last peice of techno fluff that would make their lives perfect.
The principle of delayed gratifcation takes precedence over all. Alex and I had just discussed it that morning. We share the gene for this, saving our favorite snack, our favorite book, our favorite comic strip, for last. Otherwise, what is there to look forward to?
My list for Sunday went something like this: Old Navy, Sears, maybe Victoria's Secret and last, but certainly not least, the Apple store.
I had pants to return to Old Navy, in exchange for which I promised I would pick up a white tank top for Susan who inadvertantly ruined hers in the laundry. Since I lost my receipt, the young women at the check-out counter, where they conveniently handle returns, informed me that I could not exchange these for anything but the very same particular pants, which I no longer wanted. I could, however, get credit by mail.
What does credit by mail mean? I asked, genuinely frustrated and with the beginnings of the dreaded mall headache building up around the edges. The young women explained that they would send me a credit in the mail. Why they couldn't just give me the credit made no sense to me, but I accepted the Old Navy will, and went off to buy the tank tops. Bought two large white ribbed tank tops, (after calling Susan on my cell to confirm that was indeed the size she wanted) and headed to the opposite side of the mall from where Sears is located because my brain is old and addled and I can't remember where anything is anymore. When I got to the very end of the mall, passing, considering, but not entering Victoria's Secret, and found Best Buy, Borders, Filenes but no Sears, I turned round and making a second pass at Victoria's Secrets finally found Sears right back where I had started.
Men's department? I asked, thinking how odd it was that Alex is now a man. A man needing boxers. He agreed, finally, or maybe caved, is a more appropriate description of his acquiesence, to keep some underwear and socks at my house, so that he doesn't have to run "home" whenver he needs a change of clothes. Like a pack rat, I have hoarded tee shirts, hoping against hope that the more of his stuff that makes its way to my apartment, the more he would feel at home here.
The order was for boxers. They come in a package, he said. Plaid. I had no trouble finding the underwear section, but for some reason, the selection in his size was piddly. I finally found a package, medium, 34-36, plaid. Turquoise. Is my son man enough to wear turquoise plaid boxers? I doubted it. But they were all I could find. So I tucked them under my arm and moved on. On my way to the register, I came across another display, Hanes, this time, with manly man plaids: gray, black, navy, forest green and red. These are what Alex had in mind when he said plaid. I totally knew that. Yet when it came time to pay, I kept the turquoise ones, just in case.
By this time my headache was raging. I knew the only thing that would save me was a Starbucks Tazo Chai Creme Frappacino; a quick hit of caffeine for this non coffee drinking girl. Striding back to the far end of the mall, where I thought I remembered the Starbucks, I let my gaze wander towards one of the carts cluttering the ground floor of the mall, and caught the eye of an Israeli hawker.
I'm Shlomi, he tells me. What's your name? By this time he has my hand in his and he is asking me, are these your natural nails? Any fool can see that of course they are my natural nails: un-polished, un-manicured, short but not bitten to the quick: the nails of an artist. He tells me he is going to work magic on my nails. He points out ridges, which I cannot see, but he assures me are there, and the dull color of my nail. With a four-sided rectalinear shape he begins to alternately sand and buff my nails. I am fascinated by the various grades of this cubic nail file and by the attention my middle finger is getting. When he finishes buffing, he covers my nail with his finger so I cannot see the result. He tells me to remain calm, not to scream out it surprise when I see the huge difference that this process had made. I play along and promise that I will not scream. He removes his finger. It is all I can do to keep from screaming. There was my same old little fingernail, glistening a high gloss mall glisten.
He finished off this one finger manicure with some oil applied to my cuticles, (reminding me never to cut them) and a mini hand massage with cream scented like the ocean. For only $39 I was suckered into buying the whole shebang, and it was worth every penny. I had to draw the line, however, when he tried to get me to buy a second set with fresia scented cream for my mother and perhaps a third set would be free, with citrus scented cream, and didn't have I have friends who would appreciated the money they'd save on nail polish and manicures?
I didn't have the heart to tell him that no one, absolutely no one I know has manicures, except for my mother, and the whole point of it for her is to be done to, not to do. I was firm with him, only bought the one set and now with a steal band tightening around my head, I was desperate for my frozen drink.
With ice chai in hand I allowed myself, finally, the exquisite pleasure of entering the Apple store, knowing that I was going to buy. I circled the store once, taking in all the whiteness, the Ipods, the Imacs, the white display tables, the white wires and the sales folks standing out against all that white in their orange "camp" tee shirts. I didn't get the reference and I still don't so if any one wants to clue me in that would be fine.
However I did find a guy to whom I posed my Airport question. Can I, with my cable modem and my Imac, hook up the Airport base station so that I can use the new PBG4 wirelessly from my living room and still have my Imac in the bedroom access the internet? Without a router? Without a hub? The answer, he assured me, was yes. Cable modem in here, ethernet cable out there, printer in here, I hand him my credit card, and I am on my way to the parking garage, Airport base safely tucked into the wonderful white Apple shopping bag sporting the candy red apple logo.
Suddenly my headache is gone, I am slurping the dregs of my chai, and can't wait to get home, sit in my living room, thirty feet from my cable modem, open my PB and log on. When I get home Alex rejects the turquoise boxers with a big eye roll, tells me "They are turquoise!" when I present them to him, but suggests, slyly that they might look good on me. I think he might be right. And they will go smashingly with my newly buffed fingernails dancing happily in the ambient light atop the 17 inch PB's backlit keyboard. Life is rich.
Posted by grabiner at July 22, 2003 08:03 AMoh my! :)
Posted by: shaun at July 24, 2003 08:11 PM