I spent all day yesterday in a seminar all about job searching, including resume writing and preparing for interviews, and the whole deal. It was pretty interesting, but also on the "information overload" side of things. So, to treat myself at the end of the day, I made a stop at the Mall of America.
For those of you who haven't actually been to the Mall of America, it's... well... it's huge. And, yes, it has a lot of stuff. Unfortunately, after you've been there a few times you realize that there's not really any good reason to spend time there--unless, of course, you're a teenager hoping to hang out and wander around for hours (or ride the rides in the amusement park). Frankly, most people I know who live around here pretty much avoid the place like the plague.
Of course, since most of the people I know avoid the place, that means that the crowd at about 4:30 Friday afternoon was overwhelming split between two groups: teenagers doing their best to be tragically hip, and tourists who were not afraid to get their pictures taken while gawking at the great hugeness of it all. Now don't get me wrong. Either of those groups is fine, in moderation. (I fully admit I've taken tourists there and taken their pictures.) But the Mall was PACKED with people--and they all seemed to be from one of those two groups.
**Stereotypical Sidenote** Having had to dodge the gaggles of tourists wandering four-abreast through the hallways, I could easily have decided to use this post to comment on how sad it was that so many of the people I passed perfectly fit the stereotype most other countries have of Americans--a whole lot of the people I passed were stuffed into overly-tight t-shirts, waddling along while gorging themselves on something from one of the fast food stands. I have to admit, I kind of enjoyed feeling uncharacteristically thin. But as much as it made me happy, it also made me kind of sad. **End Stereotypical Sidenote**
Back to the main point... While I was tramping around the Mall, I noticed that one of the things we pretty much all had in common was that we were in jeans. There were the tragically hip teens in their tragically hip jeans. There were the moms in their mom jeans (for the record, I am proud to say that, as far as I can remember, my mom has never worn mom jeans). And I was there in my "almost-business-casual" black jeans, too.
Sure, the windows at Express Men were pushing the 1960s-style suit made popular by the series "Mad Men" and there were pushes for khakis in the back-to-school windows all over the place, but jeans were omnipresent. And there were two jeans moments I'll never forget.
While I was heading out after picking up my Panda Express 2-item combo (Orange Chicken and Kung Pao Chicken with White Rice, in case you're wondering--Yes. That was my reason for going to the Mall in the first place), there were three 20-something black men walking my way laughing and punching each other in the arm and looking back over their shoulders at a black male teenager going the other way. I don't know if they knew him, but I heard one of the 20-somethings say "dude, pull up yo damn pants" as he laughed.
I passed those three and came up behind the younger kid and noticed that the crotch of his jeans was probably about to his knees. He was talking on his cellphone and the friend he was with was gesturing toward his pants and shaking his head. Cellphone kid cradled the phone on his shoulder, reached down, and pulled his pants all the way up. I can only imagine that, by the time the crotch actually fit him, the waistband was up to his nipples. But, at least from the back, he did look a lot better.
The second--and scarier--jeans story from the Mall came while I was on the escalator. I was going up, and mounted the steps just a few feet behind two young women. The blonde one on the left was slender and wore form-fitting jeans and a long-sleeved lightweight sweater. The burgandy-haired one of the right--directly in front of me, was a bit more curvy, and wore a cropped shirt and hip-hugging "Ed Hardy" (or at least Ed Hardy-esque) jeans.
**Non-promotional Sidenote** I feel I should explain why I'm not putting a link to an Ed Hardy site, here. It's because I think most of the "vintage tattoo inspired" clothing that he produces is absolutely ugly. It's everywhere on Hollywood's "it" crowd. But I think it needs to go away. So I'm not giving it any more publicity than it needs to make the point of my story. **End Non-promotional Sidenote**
Unfortunately, between the bottom of the cropped Harley t-shirt and the top of the tiger-bedazzled hip-huggers, about 3 inches of what could best be described as "plumber's crack" was visible. When she shifted her weight on the escalator, I feared that the crack would turn into a full-on fissure. I spent the entire ride averting my eyes, but as we neared the top I had to see where I was. As the two women stepped off the escalator, I had a horrible realization: The burgandy-haired one in the crop-top and hip huggers was actually THE MOM. At least 35 years old. Eww. But... questions of age-appropriateness aside, she and the jeans were simply NOT cut out for each other.
My stomach turned as my brain flipped. I was very glad I hadn't eaten my Panda Express meal, yet.
And so, a public service reminder for everyone out there: If you don't have the genes, maybe you really shouldn't wear those jeans.
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