I like to think I’m pretty unique. The kind that marches to the beat of her own drummer. Someone who lives in her own little world. The kind of woman who sparkles in her own special way.
It turns out that while I do all of those things; hey, it’s my blog; I can toot my horn if I want to, I’m still a bit of a cliché.
Take the summer two years ago. That would be 2013 if my math is correct. And if it isn’t correct, then it was a different year. Math never has been my strong suit. Regardless, I know it was summer.
Anyway, we got a dreaded call no parent wants to get. There had been an accident. Etcetera, etcetera. I won’t go into all the details. Just know there were a lot of tears, a ton of unnecessary drama, and more stress than anyone needs to go through. Ever. There wasn’t any water under the bridge with this one. No, it was all out…whatever. I’m not getting into it.
The point is, things got cliché after the shock started to fade.
We took the kids on a family vacation that we’d planned long before things got messy. I’m not sure why we chose the Mall of America. Maybe because we had a houseful of teenagers who like to wander the mall and shop. Or because we were in need of miles of exercise in the form of walking the biggest mall in the country. I don’t know. More than likely we’d chosen this destination because we’d never been there before.
How was it cliché? Oh boy, where do I start?
First, there was retail therapy. I was in a mall for goodness sakes. And not just any mall; a big one. Even though I don’t care for shopping (unless it’s online), I had to buy something. They don’t call it retail therapy for nothing, right? And believe me, I was in serious need of a caring therapist who would listen to my troubles and help me identify some coping skills.
Her suggestion after we’d talked and I’d done my fair share of sobbing and shouting? Go to the mall.
You have to do what your therapist says, right? Assuming, of course, that what she says to do is moral, ethical, and supposed to help you. Right?
So I went to the mall. I walked miles around that place. Which is also good for the soul. A little endorphin rush never hurt anyone. Especially if you’re going to buy shoes. Which I did. My niece got an amazing pair of cowboy (cowgirl?) boots for her birthday that year. She’s adorable. I love her.
Second on the list of how this trip turned into one big cliché…the diamonds.
It’s true. Diamonds are a girl’s best friend. They don’t talk back. They don’t lecture you about your attitude or insist you act as if everything is okay when it’s really not. Not that a true best friend would do any of those things, but you get what I’m saying. They’re diamonds. The only thing they could possibly do wrong is not be big enough.
We also ate a few good meals while we were there. And watched the fireworks show from the comfort (and safety) of our hotel room. Fireworks make me nervous. I’ll gladly watch them and ooh and ahh over their spectacular show of colors, but only if I can do it from far, far away.
Then there was the amusement park in the mall, which our kids loved.
And hubby and I went to our own form of amusement. We saw a play. Which is also like therapy for us. I don’t remember the name of the play, but I do remember enjoying it. In a building like this, how could you not? Two thumbs up for the Guthrie Theatre, folks.
I don’t recommend anyone experience a tragedy or a dramatic family event before getting the urge to go to the Mall of America. Don’t worry. You can use any small, much less dramatic excuse for needing retail therapy and buying diamonds. In fact, you don’t need a reason at all other than “this is where I want to go.”
If you have a flare for the dramatic, just go to a play while you’re there. There’s no need to create your own before going. Trust me on this one. The Mall of America is a place to have fun, kick back, and buy some jewelry. And if you’re interested, go on the amusement park rides. You might enjoy that too.
Whatever you end up doing out there, enjoy it. In a respectable manner, of course, but still. Buy a little something for yourself. Be a little cliché. It’s okay. You wouldn’t be the first to do so.