Late in the day, attempting to walk off the atypical after-lunch food coma. Need more protein. Like every married man, I had succumbed to the inevitable horror that befalls us all, aka, shopping with my wife. I loathe shopping, but I do like the Price is Right, though. Regardless, I had a brief respite at the shoe section in Macy’s. This area is ripe with selection, and most important of all, gushy chairs for guys to chill.
Cellphone signal downstairs is atrocious. Panic sets in. No surfing WAP-CNN for JXL. I had one of my best attitudes yet, held my game face for hours. Was my fate to toss it all away just for the joyous reprieve of leather wrapped mush-foam? Apparently. I chose not to choose life… I chose something else. A chair. A comfy chair. A chair which allowed me to come to terms with my current situation. Before, I had been compensating my equilibrium, with no spare cycles to focus on my current situation; standing and lookin’ like a playa’ playa’ was challenge enough. You see, I have been recovering from a cold I’ve had since New Years. While I can code and blog reasonably well, dry north Georgia mountains + allergies + head cold == whoa dude, I’m dizzy. I’m sure if I was so inclined, I could pull off the occasional ollie. If I were so inclined, which, at the time I wasn’t, and the nearest skateboard must be… geez, 800 yards away.
I lounge in the center chair of 3, arms outstretched upon them like I am being served cake by the shoe employee’s. No, I don’t know why they had cake. This was all a farce. I was irritated, all I could think of was my next AS2 class I had to build for my Flash Lite 2 app. I didn’t bring my laptop to the mall. Dear God… get me out of this. My gaze started wandering, desperately seeking something to entertain me.
I happened upon a stack of boxes that were in the chair to the left of me. The top one was smooth… black. Nondescript excluding the golden print in the center, small, but clearly visible. OMG… does that say… FLEX!? I hug the box.
“Sir, do you need some help with those?”
I couldn’t move, so I darted my eyes instead.
“No, no, thank you mam, I’m just happy to see this box here.”
“I’m sorry?”
“I’m not. My wife is over there, actually, trying to find… a 7 or something. Ask her.”
:: I’m 8 years old, this is my fort, and you have no chance of penetrating my defensive couch-pillow walls. ::
The woman quietly clears her throat uncomfortably and walks the opposite direction of my wife. The ruse worked; the poor woman fell for it, thinking some woman 20 years my senior was my wife; ah, the wonders of plastics. I’m hugging Liz Claiborne who is on top of Flex, and I’m not letting go… unless her majesty is ready to leave this cursed mall. Thanks for the reprieve, Liz.