Your wife is in Victoria’s Secret… again. Despite your offers of asssitance in trying things
on, she kicked you out of the dressing room and said she’d be out in a minute.
Twenty minutes later, there you are on a bench in the middle of the mall. Your
phone is dead, Cinnabon closed an hour ago, and you didn’t bring a book because
you’re not a 75-year-old woman named Mildred. You already counted the wads of
gum in the planter next to you, thirty-seven, and tried to take a nap.
Randomly, you glance down the long corridor; not in search of anything in
particular, but glancing around the crowded shops. A teen-aged couple holding
hands, a young mother pushing a stroller, the old married couple who got lost
seven years ago, but keep forgetting they got lost, and so begin each day
thinking George W. Bush is still in the White House.
There’s no judgment from you; no condescending stare. You are simply an observer, viewing the modern human in its natural habitat. It’s like going to a zoo of humans, except you’re allowed in the enclosures (probably should still refrain from petting
the animals; sexual harassment…just sayin), and instead of having to walk to each animal’s habitat, they come to you. There’s the giraffes (tall people), the penguins (short people), the hippos (self-explanatory), all providing hours of entertainment for the husband, boyfriend, friend-zoned best friend, etc.
Forget Baseball, it’s America’s favorite Past-Time.
A Toast: To People Watching