The big mall in our area recently opened its new wing. They took an old, decrepit wing of the mall- mostly empty for years, really empty since Montgomery Wards pulled out- and ripped it mostly down, rebuilding it into an upscale outdoor plaza geared towards trendy twenty-somethings. You know that's the target because it has stores like Anthropologie and Urban Outfitters and a Cohiba cigar lounge and a Lucky Strike bowling alley/bar. Also a nice local chainlet called Lazy Dog Cafe and an AMC 18 theater complex. It's been open for a couple of months, but we hadn't gone there until tonight. And we were surprised to kinda like it- the Lazy Dog food was good, they have a gelato and crepe joint that was quite good, and the atmosphere was less thuggish than we expected (that area of the mall was, before its transformation, best known for the regular presence of less savory sorts of people).
And there was a store that particularly caught our eye, something called Metropark, which is not the Amtrak/NJ Transit station near Iselin, NJ but rather the name of a chain of clothing stores that seems geared towards bringing Soho/Sliverlake fashion to your local mall. They're in several markets across the country- Vegas, Atlanta, even Freehold, NJ- and in several malls around here, but we'd not seen one until now.
So we went in, and it was, well, what I said- t-shirts and jackets and hats that your trendy 22 year old would wear, plus accessories- handbags, ties- and a few CDs and magazines and, seriously, a fridge full of Red Bull and designer water and energy drinks, with a safe alternasoundtrack (like the Killers) on the P.A. and young salesclerks roaming the floor decked out in the store's gear. Fran found a handbag that she really liked, and I found some great shirts that, if I spent more time at parties thrown by Young Hollywood- that is, if I were ever to be invited to a party thrown by Young Hollywood, which is unlikely given that Young Hollywood has no idea of my existence and would not invite me even if it did- I would wear in a heartbeat, all interesting patterns and designs and, shockingly, some were even in my size. We were actually having a good time browsing and noting that the store was, essentially, what Zipperhead on South Street in Philly would have grown up to be had it ever, er, grown up and gone a little more fashion-forward and moved into, say, King of Prussia mall, when a clerk sidled up and dropped the Big One:
"May I help you? Are you looking to buy a gift?"
A gift? A GIFT? For someone else, perhaps someone of "the right age"? What? Do we not look trendy enough? Are we not young enough? Do we look like old suburban farts who wouldn't know The Arcade Fire from the Partridge Family?
Er, well, yes. I mean, we don't dress trendy, we aren't young enough, and we don't look like people who would stray too far from maybe your classic rock station or maybe, in a generous mood, 93.1 Jack FM. But Fran was appalled and let the salesguy have it.
"It's for ourselves," she said, chuckling in that way that says you're not laughing out of amusement. "What, we don't look like we would shop here?"
The salesguy stammered something and slunk away, and we ended up buying Fran that trendy handbag, which I'm sure they still assumed was a gift for our daughter or niece or something. But it all reminded me how little I enjoy going into anyplace geared towards the young and trendy. At some point, I feel like I have to hand the sales clerk my resume: "Look! I've worked on radio and TV! I know famous people! I have the kind of indie and punk crap you find on Pitchfork Music and MySpace on my iPod! Please stop treating me as if I was your embarrassing father!" But it would be as pathetic as sneering "look, you stupid little whippersnappers, I was playing obscure punk on the radio before you were born!" It doesn't matter. All I am to them is some guy the same age as their fathers in a t-shirt and jeans, and Fran might as well be their mom.
And that shouldn't matter. Why should I care about what some retail clerk at the mall thinks of me? But on some level I do, because it reminds me of what I think of myself. I'm worried that I'll look in the mirror and think, geez, what an old dork. And I worry that, well, I AM an old dork. But I shouldn't worry. I should be embracing my old dorkishness. Am I an aging, boring suburban guy who drives a Volvo, watches football, and worries about the mortgage? Hell, yes! And there's nothing wrong with that! Power to the middle-aged boring suburban guys! The old dorks united will never be defeated!
Next time, maybe I should stick to the Sears end of the mall.
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