The Shadow-gloom and Weight of the Sacred

A few days ago I stopped by the mall just as it was opening because I wanted to see about something in the Apple store. I couldn't exactly remember the location of the Apple store within the mall (I don't go there that often) and ended up parking in the wrong parking lot. So, I had a bit of a walk in order to get to the store. I didn't mind; it was peaceful in the mall at that hour. There was no crowd at all, just a handful of older people walking and the bustle of workers preparing for the day. As I was walking along this young woman stepped out into my path from one of the kiosks in the middle of the mall corridor. She offered me a little plastic cup with something in it; she held a whole platter of these little cups in one hand. Thinking it was food of some kind and being a tad hungry, I thought I'd accept the gift and go on my way. But, when I looked in the cup I only saw mayonnaise, or what I thought was mayonnaise. Taken aback, I stopped.

"Have you heard of the didsee?" she asked me through a thick accent. I couldn't pinpoint the origin. Not Western Europe. And Not Oklahoman.

"No," I said. She pulled me over to the kiosk, set down the platter of mayonnaise cups and picked up a box of the product she was peddling. She began explaining that the mayonnaise I was holding was really lotion made from the minerals of the Dead Sea. I felt stupid. I told this woman I'd never heard of the Dead Sea. During her explanation of the Dead Sea, she mentioned that she was from Israel. She then opened the box and pulled out a finger nail file--made from the rocks surrounding the Dead Sea (I think).

"Please come here." She asked. Realizing there was no polite way to get out of this, I moved forward. I could be rude, but I hate it when people are rude to me, and she was just trying to make a little money.

"So, tell me, how old are you?" she asked. I hate this question. Everyone thinks I'm a 19.

"How old do you think I am? I responded. She seemed about as pleased with my question as I was with hers.

"23."

"I'm 32." That's a lie. I won't be 32 for another month, but I felt no guilt for my embellishment of the truth. I was a bit cranky from not getting a sample of food, I suppose.

"Oh. You do not look this old," she said. "Now, do you have a special lady in your life?"

"Yes." I was going to get the "buy your special lady a gift" spiel.

"Come here and give me your hand," She said. I handed her my left hand. She looked at my wedding ring and said with some surprise, "You're married."

"Yes," I said. As if I couldn't be married? Then she rattled off more spiel as she filed away at one of my fingernails. At first, I thought, 'This is alright. A free manicure!' I've never had a manicure, but I always pictured it as being very relaxing--a massage for the fingernails. She was only filing one nail to show the quality of the product. I would have to buy the file and lotion and file the other nine myself.

She stopped filing after about a minute and had me admire the result. I must admit, the filed fingernail was shiny and looked to be a healthy specimen. The other fingernails of my hand looked sad and sickly in comparison, like one of those poor unfortunate souls duped by Ursala the sea witch.

"Tell me, what do you do?" I knew where the spiel was headed. If I worked a professional job, no one would ever notice my fingernails and think, 'What an unprofessional person.' If I worked a blue collar job, my fingernails would never crack or break due to the toil of my labor.

"I'm a stay-at-home dad." The response to my answer is never anything less than classic. The question is, which classic response will it be, pity and confusion or surprise and confusion.

"Marvelous!" She said. Surprise and confusion it is. She seemed aghast for a split second--she couldn't find herself in the script--trying to locate the next line. It didn't take her long to leave behind the benefits of the file and lotion rendered to my work and move on to Christmas gifts. Too bad for her, Gretchen and I don't really exchange gifts. In fact, the only holiday gift-giving in which I participate is generally out of familial obligation, not because I believe in the practice. In retrospect, I should have told that I'm a secular humanist.

"I don't really guy gifts." This is the truth.

"You don't buy any gifts?" She asked, I think realizing I was not going to buy the file and lotion. (She dropped the price a total of $20.)

"Just for my daughter."

And then I went on my way to find that the Apple store does not carry the Pogo Stylus.