The Kitten Has Left The Building

I've devoted a fair amount of energy to mall avoidance in recent years.

Given that I enslaved myself to these beasts, in one form or another, for most of my teens and twenties, mall avoidance is how I imagine detox might be. Its grip on me was fierce. In fact, I could sketch you a two decade mall directory history on an Orange Julius napkin right now, including pre- and post-upgraded Food Court AND all store spaces that were once occupied by Rave. (That store has gotten around, if you know what I mean.)

Okay, I shouldn't be proud of that. I know. Which is why I have practiced hardcore mall avoidance ever since the tornadoes outgrew strollers and I tired of fetching them from the Filene's security office when they went missing. I swear, that only happened twice.

Black Friday notwithstanding, the Mall is a transactional stop. My hairdresser is there. My nail salon is there. I park close to said maintenance shop and point my eyes straight ahead. Other than that, and the occasional Macy's visit (requiring no contact with other stores), I kicked the habit.

Enter budding tween and her aspiring little sister, mix with the dastardly Limited Too, throw in a pair of Claire's stores... see Tress falling off the kiosk, so to speak.

Yes, I've been in those parts quite a bit lately - mainly in the dastardly Limited Too, holding the Cinnabon, exercising my veto powers.

It's dastardly, by the way, because everything in there is so freaking cute, and I love that my girls can be so girly, and I want to buy them everything (can you say "vicarious"?). But I must be strong and draw the line of appropriateness. Vetoing is my job.

And sadly, this also applies to me, in ways I did not see coming.

The mall has turned against me. It has completely sidestepped the aging process. Which means it is no longer possible for me to shop there.

The size that I have managed to maintain for twenty years - the one that I still buy in Macy's, thank you very much - does not correlate to...oh, say, any store that does not sell business suits. This I learned while trying to wedge myself into a pair of capris in the dressing room of a certain hip-yet-evil American Eagle. (And I only held the Cinnabon. Really.) Also not welcoming were the adorable halter tops that Second Grader picked out for me. The ones that looked just like the halter tops in Limited Too, but "for old people" she said. So "old people" are apparently sixteen.

We won't even talk about shorts.

American Eagle and friends: veto.

Also out is mall snacking of any kind. Once upon a time, ninety-nine percent of my sustenance came from that salt factory. Now I sneak two or three sips of Twornado's six-dollar fruit smoothie, the closest thing to nutritious food, and I'm done. Anything more than that, I need a nap.

Food Court: veto.

Which leaves me back outside the dastardly dressing room, scrutinizing tank top coverage on eight-year-old girls. Holding the Cinnabon.

I relayed my Evil Eagle Encounter to a certain fellow this weekend, admittedly looking for an ego boost. I received a most interesting response. A response I hadn't considered before. A response I didn't see coming.

"Maybe," said this fellow, "you are becoming a Cougar."

Maybe I am becoming a Cougar.

And the fellow, he did not get a veto.