The
mall in West Palm Beach is much like Camelot: a two storied stronghold with
woebbley clops of cobblestones strategically placed at the four directions. Once you cross them, you are surrounded by peach stucco and iron detailing, open air eateries and water fountains. Beautiful people drift about the baubles, leisure and
extravagance wafting through the slightly humid, good-for-your-skin air.
However, once you enter the parking structure, it is
pointless to look for a spot on the first
level, which would be fifty steps to my favorite store: Anthropology, wherein I am sent twitching over glass doorknobs and aprons accented with pom-poms. The first level is a swamp of handicapped parking, Mercedes and
Bentleys (i.e. those who Shop, with a very capital "S"). So, after parking on the second level, there are mini escalators. Instead of there being six steps to ascend to the second level of stores, there are these tiny creations. Escalators, once thought to conveniently ascend bag-saddled shoppers, were now miniaturized for the vaguely infirm (it
is Florida, let's not forget).
Up the six steps I ride, take three steps, and down an escalator proper, saving me enough steps for an extra lap around Anthropology's
homewares section.
As with all shopping ventures, one must prepare oneself with caffeine and
just enough
buzzy sugar to create energetic forward movement, but not a crack-high. Off to Starbucks for an "
unsweet" iced coffee and a Madeline, which is a confection starchy enough to be a slow release of sugar, not like a brownie or chocolate chip cookie, which will spike you up, then drop-kick your blood sugar ass, leaving you brain damaged and without essential decision making skills in the middle of
Nordstrom's shoe department, box tissue fluttering, check-card impotent in your hand.
I left Starbucks and let my crumbs recklessly fall on the
pavers of the open-air mall, interspersing the buttery fluff and loose structure of my treat with the solid exclamation taste of coffee.
As I meandered, a lady dressed in a pink and white small-checked dress with black ribbons for straps caught my eye. She was standing with a middle-aged man who was sporting Bermuda shorts and brown loafers, a banana leaf print shirt
hammocking his paunch, polished gold watch flecking Florida sunshine.
I considered her as I sucked on my exclamation point: something about the woman was amiss. At first I thought she was his daughter, a compact and fit body,
way more in shape than me, shoulder length
blond hair...she was gesturing enthusiastically, and I assumed she was making her case for staying another hour, Dad,
puh-
leeeeese. Then I realized her shoes were too reasonable - white mules with a one inch heel. Her hair was just a little too
blond, and her arms...when they hung for a moment at her sides, the elbows were wrinkled!
She was middle aged! At first I thought it was funny and was a little embarrassed for her - a 50 year-old woman in a 19 year-
old's dress! "She is clearly confused," I thought. "She forgot how old she is. That dress needs a tag stating the max age of wearer: Size 2, 25 years or younger." Then I was perturbed. "How come she's all fit and cute and making an effort and he's not? Why doesn't he think he should stay in shape? Does he have the money? Does he think the Rolex makes him slim?"
In my contemplation of their physical fitness intent, I had barely noticed they had turned and were walking towards me.
I had to see her face. Just check it out. Was she funny-looking and the hot-bod was it's counter weight, or pretty and was
upkeeping the package? I fiddled with my straw and played
faux-fascination with the way the cream swirled around the ice cubes in my java until just the right moment - when they were at the three step distance where a truly innocent drink-analyzer would hear the
slappity-
slappity of her mules and would look up to be sure there would be no collision.
I remember pink lipstick
and a nice chin, a pretty face with lightly tanned skin and the glint of earrings behind swaying thick hair. Her eyes were dark brown and looking right at me. Hers was a strategic glance too, but it wasn't curiosity, like me, or to avoid collision, like I pretended, but she was sizing me up! And in it, behind it, there was...oh my gosh!...
envy.
"Wow," I thought. "I must look good today."
It put me in good spirits, even as I questioned it. No one wanted to be me. I was cute, but not beautiful, my hair was long, but not silky, I was slim, but not in shape. Oh well. I was cute enough.
And then it happened again. I was happily ensconced in Anthropology, enthusiastically unscrewing the top of a lavender body lotion I had no intention of buying (I don't even like lavender), when another woman gave me an eye-sweep, flipped her hair, then disappeared behind the soap racks. I was going to save the soap-snuffing for last, but instead I carried the lotion with me and followed her in to the oasis.
Had my planets aligned? Was I particularly beautiful today? Should I run home and throw on lingerie so my boyfriend could be awed by my day of gorgeousness?
I pulled up shoulder to shoulder and grabbed a soap, glancing over with a little shopper-camaraderie smile. Well groomed
blond she was gave me a quick glance, no return smile, and moved away. Another woman in the apron section. Another one by the beaded pet collars.
Shiny, polished,
ensembled, French manicured toes, coiffed
blonds all, and all over 45. I stole a glance of myself in the oval counter-top mirror near the jewelry section. Maybe I smelled. Maybe I was weird looking. Maybe I morphed into
Salma Hayek and didn't know. Then, I got it: my small nose, long hair, jeans skirt, flip-flops...the only collective info from these
separate items was one thing: I am younger than them.
I look younger than I am. The women probably thought I was in my mid-20's. HA! Even if I looked my age, they still
had a good 15 years on me. For the first time, other women were jealous of me!
Every woman
wants to be coveted by other women. Not sexually, but to be looked at, just seen, for a split-second payoff of some other
female thinking: "I wish I looked like her". I wanted it since I was 8 and begged for rainbow striped wedge slippers. None of my friends had them, and they would want them! Kids at school would see me and be jealous!
Girls with wavy hair and cute outfits and gel sandals would want
my slippers! I had put them on in the store, followed my mother with small shuffles because of the plastic loop locking the slippers together was still attached. I knew I would get them only through sheer
persistent irritation, stirring my mother to such an internal frenzy aisle after aisle that she would say
ok, if just to speed up the weekly grocery shopping.
And here I was, finally, 26 years later.
It wasn't for my looks, I knew, or my personal accomplishments. That's a bit much to hope for, being a person such as I (
un-accomplished, average girl that I am), but it was something. A little taste that could turn in to something more. To be envious is a sin, but to stir envy in others? Maybe doing something specifically to create envy smacks of evil. But, to be admired? That was closer to what I wanted. Admired by what I've
done. No one can help what they look like, or that
years go by, but they can help who they are.
My evil-
ish glee turned into something else. I realized that smelling good to some random passer-by-er was not enough for what I wanted. I wanted someone to want to be me even when I smelled bad. I wanted someone want to be me even when I'm a wreck (especially since that was a more frequent
occurrence). Hell, I wanted
me to want to be me. I dropped my lotion on a random counter and went directly home to start something that would make me jealous of me tomorrow.
