A Cavalcade of Human Constipation
Mother's Day shopping in the Third World
It’s May, which means it’s still early enough before the Arizona Sahara Season starts (July) to go to an outdoor “outlet” mall on the Rez. This is one of Mrs LS’s main hobbies, spending my money. She has a closet the size of a small Latin American country, but it’s “too small.” She “just can’t find room” for her over 200 pairs of shoes. (“You have to wear the right shoes with an outfit.” I’m reminded of the Wayans’ Brothers “Don’t Be a Menace to South Central Los Angles while You’re Drinking Your Juice in the ‘Hood,” where Loc Dog asks his friend’s opinion of his gun/sneaker coordination—-”The Air Jordans with the Glock? Or the Adidas with the Oozie”)
Mrs LS insists she shops these outdoor malls because she is frugal. “I got this on sale” is her go-to line as the total “sales” bills pile up.
Anyway, I don’t mind. There’s shade (a valuable commodity in about a month—-and I had a good Vince Flynn book.
But you can’t help but notice.
Mrs LS calls these “Third World” malls because, well, they appear to be more like something you’d find in Calcutta or Nairobi than in Phoenix or Cincinnati. And you have to understand that Arizonians, or, at least, the patrons, seem to have less conception of how to dress for 100+ degree heat than most. Yet, I actually think they live here.
What ensued was a cavalcade of human constipation, a virtual insult to commonsense fashion, and a reminder that some people aren’t just born stupid, but practice, practice, practice. For example, despite the heat, a common clothing item is the black hoodie, combined with long pants. That’s right, people, the more clothes you pile on, the cooler you’ll be. Can I interest you in fuzzy boots and a parka? And many of these women looked like they were dressed by a sadistic twin of Ralph Lauren, a pervie uncle, or Stevie Wonder on meth. I mean, seriously, do they actually look in the mirror before they leave the house and go, “Damn, I’m hot!” Even more troubling, there are often men accompanying them going “Damn, she’s hot!” They aren’t talking about Fahrenheit here, either.
The dress code for white 20-ish white males is so strict that someone must screen them before they come in: baseball caps (it seems the reverse cap trend is finally dying, maybe because shading one’s eyes in the perpetual solar storm that is Arizona is probably not only desirable but necessary), cargo shorts, and a black t-shirt. Always black. You know, so it absorbs more sunlight.
The sheer tonnage on display must make the peddlers of Ozympec or the franchise holders of Weight Watchers positively salivate. Women are squeezed into such tiny tops and “yoga pants” that these materials must come from the Defense Department as new missile-resistant armor for tanks. Some of these outfits stretch so much you could bungie jump from the moon and still count on its resilience to pull you back.
Seriously, the fat quotient at these so-called “walking malls” (so named because I have yet to see a rickshaw, but there are plenty of handi-fat self-propelled moosemovers) has to be off the charts. If obesity is defined as a body mass index of 30 or higher, they’re gonna need a bigger boat.
Indeed, retailers have cleverly shifted clothing sizes to conceal the growing fat epidemic: Mrs LS showed he she bought a pair of shorts in a “4.” I said, “You’re a 4 now?” She said, “No, I’m a 6 which is what I’ve always been. They are changing the sizes so as not to embarrass the 14s.” Cue Anne Hathaway in “The Devil Wears Prada” and her “size four ass.”
I won’t bother posting the pictures of a typical beach in the 1960s where nary an even slightly-overweight body is seen, let alone an ocean of Orcas. Anyway, Mrs LS emerged with her predictable bag-candy which she got “on sale” and I await my Citibank bill with the same eagerness as my next colonoscopy.
Larry Schweikart
Rock drummer, Film maker,NYTimes #1 bestselling author
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