Of all the horrible places to spend a Sunday, a large mall five days before Christmas was probably only halfway down on the Top Ten List. It wasn't life-ending, but it wasn't a spa day either.
The girls and I had to do a little shopping before Friday, and I let my daughter talk me into driving down to the Flatirons Crossing mall complex. Actually, she drove, and I rode in the back seat, making faces at the most beautiful baby in the world. (I'm biased, but I'm allowed to be.) We were there far too long and did far too much walking for our own good. My daughter will recover faster. Me, I'm sore and was so tired I ate only Chex mix for dinner (homemade, so it was GF safe) and am sitting in bed early.
I don't know what I was expecting for changes in how malls operate. This was the first one I have been to since the start of the pandemic. It was bizarre seeing people standing in line to enter stores, waiting for the young person counting patrons at each door to let them past a velvet rope like these were hip night clubs. I was okay with the food court being hollowed out of all its tables and chairs. But they took out all possible places to sit in the rest of the sprawling complex also. That upset me to no small extent. No benches, no chairs. I had brought my fancy new Ukrainian-made, solid-wood cane with me, but even that didn't help offset not being allowed to sit for hours. In fact, I noticed a whole lot of people with canes and walkers and stuff this time around. Too early to say whether it was really more common, or was it just because I have moved myself into that camp, that I was naturally noticing my new comrades. I wanted to ask them what they thought of the lack of resting places. I was too shy to strike up a conversation.
We finished at the mall, and stopped at a Walmart on the way back to town, and did yet more walking. This time I had a shopping cart to hang on to with both hands, so I had a touch more support. My right hip is on fire, though. Inflammation is eating it up, and I still haven't gotten over my fears to go back for a massage since February. We loaded the Grumpus back into the car, and I mused aloud--putting aside the Wall-E connotations of it, I wish it were socially acceptable for adults to get pushed in a stroller like babies, when we get worn out, but our companions still have more shopping to do. Wouldn't that be great? Just climb in and nap while your family hits all the stores you just don't want to be in. Babies don't know how good they have it.
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