5:44 p.m. - December 17, 2001
to live above a mall?
You want hypocrisy? What about preaching about how one shouldn't judge others by their appearance and then commence going Christmas shopping and looking down on every salesgirl with too much ugly eye makeup on, smoking Camels every break? How about saying one shouldn't whine about how much one needs attention, and then commence whining when out to dinner with friends? Turning your nose up at liars and then weaving intricate stories? Saying 'at least I'll KEEP my promises' and then it took only two days for you to break one, albeit with much remorse, but only because you're afraid of karma?
Anyway, I went to Marshall Fields to buy some jeans, because as far as I know they're the only place that stocks SilverJeans, which is the only company that makes jeans that are long enough for me that I like the style of. I end up wandering around the whole fucking place, through misses and junior and womens and plus-size and mens and fucking lingerie, looking for a stupid pair of jeans. I ended up on the third floor, in the furniture section (since when does Fields have a furniture section?) with pompous men in black suits flocking around me, asking if I needed any assistance, with pointed glances back down the escalator. Yeah, of course I was planning to mug their furniture store; pull a long curved knife out of my leather trenchcoat, because that's what teenagers in leather trench coats do, right? I went back down. Swore to myself I would never set foot in a department store ever again. And finally found the SilverJeans rack in the juniors section.
I rifled through the sizes, unfolding each pair to look at the tag. 25-30. 27-31. 29-30. 30-31. 31-30. Fucking headache, and what is this, Silver is supposed to make jeans that are a) not made only for skinny people, and b) not made only for short people. Their largest waist size averaged out to be about a size 8, longest inseam maybe 31. Fine if you're 5'4". So I stomped on over to the service desk. "Where's your long jeans?"
"Long jeans?" with a blank look.
"Yes, like me," I said, given that I towered at least six inches over her. "Silver makes long jeans."
"Silver?" she said.
"Silver. Look, can you order some for me if you don't have the right size?"
"Oh, yes," she said, springing into action, grabbing a catalogue. "What size would you like?"
"33-35, please," I said.
"35?" she said, disbelievingly. "Nobody makes pants that long."
Honestly, I was tempted to just yank down my pants and show her the waistband. "I've got on 34-35's right now," I said.
"Oh," she said. "We only go up to 32. Try plus size's, not juniors. Though I doubt they have Silver, I don't think Silver gets that big around the waist either."
"Fine. Thank you," I said, through gritted teeth. I mean, I do not need to feel like I'm a blimp in addition to being a 6'2" seventeen year old girl.
I went outside, walked under some of the mall arches, looked up, realized there was more building above the stores. I stopped right in my tracks; a man behind me ran into my heel and dropped his Body Shop bag, gave me a dirty look and went on. Do people live up there? Above the mall, bove this FAO Schwartz and Brookstone and Cheesecake Factory? And if they do, do they like it, I mean, do they feel lucky to be in the middle of it all?
For some reason then I started fantasizing about a future lover, one with quite a bit of money, asking me f I'd like to get an apartment above the Limited Store. Looking at him coyly, I would reply, "I'd rather jump to my death from it."
And he would throw back his head and laugh, give me a bear hug. "I was hoping you'd say that," he would murmur against my neck.

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