Suburban Jungle

photo credit: letsnottalkaboutmovies.blogspot

The suburban equivalent to an African safari is a weekend trip to the mall on a rainy day. If you are very sensitive to stereotypes, or easily offended by my 2010 account of a visit to the Queens Mall, don't read on.

When my conservative, soft spoken, Connecticut born and raised husband comments on the atrocity of something, I know I'm not being overly critical. I am well aware of the slobification American has been undergoing in recent year, but I'm not sure when the plaque engulfed the whole Island in a tsunami of sweat pants and Ugg boots. Granted the places we were visiting in search of new spring clothes for a toddler were not the most high end (Old Navy, Children's Place) but I still can't really understand what has happened to people in malls (or in the suburbs? I'm not sure where the line ends).

A family of four walked ahead of us, mother with bright red hair, hooded sweatshirt draped off of one shoulder exposing hot pink tank top, daughters in similar shades of pink sweat suits a few sizes too small, eating pretzels glistening with butter under the fluorescent lights like gems in the sky. I do love a good fountain soda (3/4 diet, 1/4 regular coke) but the stench of battered food and artery-clogging sweets made me lose my appetite for this one mall staple. After 25 minutes and little success with our mission, we fled the mall in our fuel inefficient SUV. Somethings about the suburbs I will just never get used to.