Survival of the Fittest

I’ve lived in Minnesota my entire life, and not once had I dared go to the Mall of America on a Saturday afternoon.  Even as a child, people warned my family about getting swallowed by the sea of tourists and shopping enthusiasts that came out to prey on the (now second) largest shopping mall in the United States.  With the sign indicating it’s name glinting proudly in the sun, currently at it’s highest point in the sky, I should have known it was a bad idea. 

Last weekend, I made a promise to my dad that I would take my little sisters back-to-school clothes shopping.  Thinking I would be most successful at the “moa,” as it’s so proudly known as to the native indie-hipsters and teenyboppers, I originally set the date as Friday after school.  Unfortunately, my sister Camila has dance after school on Fridays so I took Gabbi alone.  Skipping out the door, she giggled, knowing that she had once again completed her lifelong quest of being “first” in the family.  The mall was calm Friday night; we ate a delicious meal at Famous Dave’s and shopped for jeans and shirts able to withstand the ever-approaching months that our state is known for.  We ended with dessert at a modern-esque ice cream shop made up of all white tiles and pink accents called Freeziac.  It was a rather enjoyable experience, beside the fact that my wallet took a pretty hard hit.

The next day was Camila’s turn.  I picked her up from dance, excitement so prominent on her face it was as if she was screaming at the top of her eight-year-old lungs.  I rumbled my ’99 Mercury Sable to life and we were off to what I thought would be an equally enjoyable time with the older of my two sisters.  The trouble started the minute we exited from 77 onto Lindau Lane.  Cars were parked one after another on the ramp, with no signs of moving.  It was clear that the enjoyable, relaxed day I thought I would have with my sister would turn into batting off angry shoppers and dodging wide-eyed tourists.  It took us fifteen minutes just to get into the parking lot.  By this time, I was fed up and drove up the long, concrete mountain to the top, which is so righteously named after our far state of Alaska.  With Camila in tow, a firm hand holding hers, we elbowed our way to the food court, where we had Chinese instead of a nice sit-down meal.  The restaurants were roaring with people and a 25-minute wait was an eternity neither of us wanted to suffer through.  The stores were overcrowded and stuffy; clothes strewn about every which way, which made sizes near impossible to find.  The Mountain Dew Camila drank for lunch had her in a more rambunctious mood than normal, and although she fit in with the screaming four-year-olds being pulled around like show dogs on leashes, I had had enough.  We traversed our way through three more stores and successfully spent the remainder of my paycheck finishing just as we had the night before; a custom-made ice cream treat from the sparkling, new Freeziac. 

It was a day I will remember forever, swimming through seas of people, navigating through piles upon piles of overpriced children’s clothing, and ducking to get out of touristy pictures in front of restaurants and attractions.  I never would have thought that going shopping at the mall would turn into survival of the fittest.  I’ve learned my lesson, and I’m never stepping foot in the Mall of America on a weekend afternoon again.