Amy's Day Off

Upon awakening this morning I sprang out of bed; a day of freedom to pursue whatever my heart desires, which usually amounts to nothing but a hill of beans (strange saying). Never mind that it’s Thursday and I work the weekend. What matters most is the moment and knowing I do not punch a time clock today.

Nevertheless I must honor one frame of time this morning. I am scheduled to see my shrink. No analyzing, no plodding through my past here, just a few minutes of small talk and then write me a script, Doc, and I’m out the door. Today however brought a break from the routine. When I arrived and attempted to open the office door I found it locked. A few seconds pass and then I hear a buzz which I assume will allow me to enter. Enter I did. From what I gathered from the hushed whispers a lockdown had occurred due to some poor crazy motherf….. peeved at one of the witchdoctors. I compose a plan while I pretend to read my magazine: a burst of adrenaline will allow me to catapult myself over the secretary’s counter and I will seek protection from the raging M16 he surely will use on his rampage. Or should I play hero and fling myself at him, blindsiding him and causing him to drop his weapon. If I fail at this endeavor I most likely will be shot dead at close range. My bravery will surely be honored and perhaps my progeny will be awarded a medal by the president at a special ceremony commemorating my valiant deed. Nah, the former plan makes me look saner and when going to a shrink that’s what one strives to do. God forbid he should think me suicidal. Through another locked door I go and enter the inner sanctum of Lunaticland. My doctor did seem a tad disconcerted and not his usual entertaining convivial self, however he was not too flustered to neglect to sing a few bars of Once in Love With Amy. If he neglected to sing me that little ditty, well, that would have caused me much concern. Upon leaving I spotted two deputies, one outside the office door and one posted at the elevator on the ground floor. I considered sticking around awhile longer, who knows maybe I would bump into Diane Sawyer covering the carnage for the evening’s news. But no, I couldn’t waste a moment more on my precious day off so off I went to the . . . Mall.

Two times a year I trek to the Mall, well maybe three times: during the holiday surge, after the holiday surge, and sometime during the weeks following the Forth of July. Not that this latter holiday has become a major day of commercial greed thus far, but rather to purchase my summer wardrobe at a fraction of the preseason cost. For those of you that spend your lives in the closet for whatever reason, the stores have hoards of clothing they must clear before they can bring out their next season’s collections.

I know precisely what store I want to hit so I park in the lot closet to one of their many entrances. As I go in I note the monstrous purple and red hippopotami pillows which will guarantee I will exit the proper door as to find my car in that vast sea of expensive real estate set aside for us Americans who spend more on our vehicles every year than most people in third world countries spend in a lifetime. Will we be accountable for this in the afterlife? I don't know. Cars equipped with video games, huge three to four garage homes that could house entire clans, food that kings and queens of past ages would salivate over, high tech toys which we replace every year regardless of price or practicality, well, I could go on and on riding this tangent however that is not the gist of my story.

I find suitable and affordable blouses (half off the original price). Now that I work in an environment where I am required to dress in an appropriate manner, which means no jeans, tee shirts and scruffy sneakers I have become quite the little fashion diva. I bring my booty up to the cash register and am rung up by the rudest young woman on the planet. Not even a hello, mind you. She sneezes and I say, “Bless you” which she totally ignores. If this ill-mannered lass had to depend on tips for a living she would be living in a van down by the river. But then, maybe she does considering what many of these mega conglomerate chain department stores pay their help; a justifiable and understandable reason for her insolent attitude.

Rather than go with my original plan of leaving after this one stop I venture out into the mall for there are no hordes of seasonal or weekend shoppers. Every now and then when I shop at the local Hy-Vee I think, what if a starving person from Sudan was suddenly transported through time and space and landed right smack in the middle of this expanse of alimentary excess. I think of this now, someone from a poor struggling nation who has never been to the big city. The glitz and overabundance of merchandise can be mind boggling to even a few of us who live in the good old US of A.

I window shop for what seems like blocks, dodging the oldsters who use the mall as their personal fitness track. For God sakes, people, its fifty-one freakin’ degrees out today, go out and get a breath of fresh air and maybe see some shrubbery, or God forbid, the cloudless turquoise splendor overhead known as the sky. I am drawn to the pink gaudy entrance to Victoria’s Secret and topple inside, my eyes drawn to the gigantic posters of models with emaciated faces wearing lacy bits of material barely covering their ample bosoms. Many female shoppers and one man ( perv or what?) are voraciously rummaging through boxes of lingerie (some bras are covered in rhinestones, how innovative is that, I ask myself). I have observed enough of this seedy scene and head south to Younkers where hopefully a saner lot browses and shops. By this time my nose and eyes are flowing streams of watery substance, further proof to me that I am either allergic to people or shopping or perhaps to people shopping. By this time I have reduced the many tissues in my pockets to soppy mushy pieces of dubious matter. I must look like a junkie jonesing for her next fix. It’s definitely time to leave. I turn around and swiftly head back, however not too fast to miss out on a quick peek into Betty Jane’s Chocolates and spy the bags of double dippers displayed on a bottom shelf in a corner of the quaint shop. My mind engages in a quick discourse and decides I have enough chocolate at home, even though a part of my psyche tells me there can never be enough chocolate to satisfy a bona fide chocolate addict (maybe I’m jonesing for my chocolate fix for the meager chocolate chips buried in the cookie I had for breakfast must surely be wearing off by now). I bypass the alluring confections, the lyrics sung by my doctor earlier, “Ply her with bonbons, poetry, and flowers” capering in my head.

I barely find my exit and make a fast break to my car where I keep a fresh supply of tissues in the glove department. For all my distress of the morning I decide to compensate myself with a trip through the drive-thru at Wendy’s where I order a one fourth pound cheese burger, hold the mayo please, and a frosty. My request of no mayo holds up the line and when handed my meal at the second window I make a hasty exit for fear the irate customers behind me will pull me from my car and beat and stomp me to death for the delay. I’m telling you, danger follows me wherever I go. Once home I flop in my easy chair and delve into lunch ala Wendy’s. Afterwards my crucial tasks of the day are scooping the cat poop out of the litter boxes and doing three loads of laundry. Ah, tis great to be home!