The Mall

The vision was so clear in my head: A simple white camisole, preferably modal, preferably silky finish, V-neck, lace trim a minimum of one inch wide, skinny straps. This seems like a fairly straightforward item, one that is not all that creative or obscure in its imagining.

Without the camisole, I can't wear the white eyelet dress I bought weeks ago. The dress has a deep V-neck that almost completely exposes my breasts if I move my arms in any direction. Picking up a pen and writing would be enough to earn Mardi Gras beads.

I steer the Jeep to the mall. I usually buy my clothes at Ross, but there are some things that just aren't there. Like my camisole.

The mall here is full of beautiful people. It's like one continuous parade of Aryan perfection, long, tanned legs, perfect hair, and cosmetically whitened teeth. My first instinct is to hunch over so nobody will notice dumpy me trespassing on their hallowed ground.

As I make my way toward Macy's, I realize that I am very much out of the demographic for this mall. Louis Vitton, Coach, Juicy Couture, L'Occitane, Anthropologie, Neiman-Marcus...I have just enough cash to buy some lotion at Bath & Body Works. I look at the ads on the sides of the mall directory and am puzzled when it occurs to me that I don't know who any of the celebrities are who are pitching products. I don't even know why they are celebrities. I don't seem to recognize any celebrity under the age of 30. I feel unhip. Old and unhip.

A girl about nine or ten years old almost bumps into me. It looks like she is alone. She is dressed far more fashionably than I am. She is carrying two shopping bags and chatting on a cell phone. When I was her age, our big solo shopping trip was to the candy store with $1 to spend. Then we came home and played Barbies. This kid was Barbie.

Foley's. Macy's. Macy's bought out Foley's and replaced all of the merchandise I could use with items that cost more but look no better. In the lingerie department, my camisole is elusive in a repeated course of Yes-No-Well, almost-No. Definitely not what I'm looking for. I tell Christy the sales clerk that I am looking for a bra in an impossible size--42-B. Maybe. I want something lightly padded, with wide straps and a wide band in the back that won't dig into my shingles nerve. She tells me that my Warner's Saturday Bra is giving me very good lift, not that I asked, and then brings me five bras, but none of them work. I feel bad after she went through so much trouble, so I skulk out of lingerie and into Plus sizes. (Side note: Later on I went to Nordstrom. I had trouble finding the plus sizes. All of their departments have names like "Insight," and "Encore.")

At 7:00 p.m. I call home to tell my husband that I am shopping and not left for dead on the side of a road. He assures me that he wasn't worried. Somehow, I find this troubling.

I stop at what I call the short-fat store, Talbot's Woman Petite. It's like they knew I was coming, except I refuse to pay $75 for a simple cotton skirt that I know cost about $2 to make.

After four hours in the mall, I can't take anymore. I step into Bath & Body Works where I pay cash for three bottles of shower gel and try not to sneeze from scent overload.

I come home, walk in the house, and am greeted by husband and dog. My husband assesses the situation and says, "Seriously. No camisole?" I nod and walk silently to the bedroom. Another shopping failure. I look at the white eyelet dress hanging on the closet door. I feel discouraged. Maybe I should just return it.