Dear Fashion Square Mall

Define Yourself.

Sincerely,
Disoriented Consumers Holding the Experience to a Higher Standard, or Any Standard for that Matter


A trip to the mall was once an excursion, a noteworthy event. My mother, sisters and I made the forty five minute trek to Beachwood Place, a bona fide Jerusalem for the avid shopper. Faces beamed as we stepped outside, greeted by the sweet smell of commerce. The following hours were spent meandering from store to store, perusing the latest trends, deciding which items were essential to the enhancement of our wardrobes and which could be sacrificed. Such intense commitment required sustenance, provided by the upscale food court. There are two places where I assume calories are non-existent, a mall food court and an airport, so additional stops by Auntie Anne’s, Cheryl & Co and Godiva were always a must. As we ate, consulted with one another and danced to the stores’ melodies, the years between us dissipated. Costs incurred were well hidden by Mother, and I left a bit more of a lady than at the day’s onset.

Fifteen years later, my sentiments toward shopping are not the same. There are viable reasons as to why this is the case.

1) I am now spending money, and with each swipe of the credit card, my soul grieves. Further, online shopping substantiates the stance, "full retail is for suckers."
2) I am no longer ten and my body no longer shapeless. Apparently there are no phantom calories. I find myself trying on five different shirts, each revealing a different layer I would prefer non existent.
3)The shopping provided by Charlottesville's main venue leaves much to be desired. The topic upon which I will expound in the ensuing diatribe...

I get it – Charlottesville is diverse, but as Seth Godin reiterates, you cannot please everyone. Pick your audience and focus. Fashion Square Mall houses the most incongruent assortment of stores, and I have no idea to whom they are catering. Lane Bryant beside J.Crew, Payless beside Nine West, Sephora beside Lids, J.Crew beside the Buckle. Is it targeting trashy teenagers, yuppie yo-pros, slightly overweight middle-aged women, wannabe gangsters? Add Urban Outfitters for the hipsters and the schizophrenic style spectrum is complete.

The ultimate offender is Coach, and worse, the sales personnel who believe they are too good for the mall's clientele. Maybe you should not park your store next to Body Central. This is not Rodeo Drive. Yes, I am bitter. The last time I entered, the saleswoman looked me up and down; noticing my ten dollar bag and workout attire, she coyly asked, “Are you looking to replace your current purse?” The tone said, "I have to be polite because you are human, but you will never be worthy of Coach."

It is times such as these I want to drop $300 to spite the judgmental tone. Then I remember my policy, "Do not overpay for articles produced by Malaysian children toiling in textile factories." Perhaps if I were treated with a bit of respect, I could be assuaged to overlook said policy; with that attitude, however, I will simply bum my mother’s hand-me-down clutches, totes, satchels, cross bodies - what happened to the days of yore when a purse was all a woman carried? Seemingly hypocritical, but I must adhere to my primary policy: "Do not refuse free articles, even if produced by Malaysian children toiling in textile factories. Common courtesy to the giver."

Despite my aversion, unavoidable purchases made a recent trip to this den of disparity necessary. The soles of my shoes were worn, my mascara was crumbling, and my powder had lost its luster. These are not exciting items but essentials that would be eternally replenished in an ideal world. Alas, we live in a fallen world, so off to the mall I begrudgingly drove.

The experience did not revolutionize my opinion. Fashion Square Mall did not spontaneously sprout a second floor, securing a claim to legitimacy. The food court was still sub par and the layout still confusing. I could not tell if people were there to shop, exercise, steal bras or nap.

I put these ponderings aside as I had to find new tennis shoes, a frightening transition. I have been a loyal supporter of Asics for years, but upon joining Crossfit, I was told it would behoove me to find soleless shoes. Fitting, as I consider the membership dues are a bit soulless as well.

The Finish Line salesman was quite friendly and humored me after I mistook my left foot for my right. Spirits were further buoyed when I happened upon an over sized UVA zip-up hoodie, the perfect replacement for my brother-in-law's sweatshirt I regret discarding. A zip-up hoodie is less committal than a pullover and does not dishevel hair in the garbing process. When paired with a slimming tank top and zipped just low enough to reveal tasteful cleave, it implies, "I am low maintenance, but still sexy." All this for only $15 - what a treat!

I was even mildly entertained listening to the Lancome cosmetic artist's feeble attempt to communicate with the group of male Asian tourists seeking lotion*.

When the flustered woman was ready, I bought the most expensive mascara with the vibrating brush for two reasons:

1) Just as all cookies are better double stuffed, so all mechanisms are better vibrating

2) The crafty sales department of Lancome realized that if they set the monetary limit for a free gift slightly higher than average retail, people will upgrade or purchase two items. You win, Lancome. Thirty-six dollars for luscious lashes.

I acquired my goods with relative ease and a faint hint of enjoyment. Perhaps not all experiences need to be grandiose and memorable. We still parted ways on a note of disappointment, as not even the Japanese eatery had samples to satisfy my growing hunger pangs. Until next time, FSM, stay mediocre.

*They obviously had cameras around their necks.