Mark Goes Shopping for a Dress

Mall of America

The news was expected. Our second son, Dylan, and his long time significant other, Shelly Helgeson, got engaged over the Christmas break. The normally recalcitrant and emotionally reserved young man “popped the question” to his lady on Christmas Eve and presented her a rock the size of a small potato. She, of course said yes. But, as anyone who has gone through the process of modern marrying knows, the engagement is just the “tip of the iceberg”, so to speak. The next decision for the fated couple is: When? Well, the date was quickly set: September 20, 2014. Less than ten months away. Then, of course, come the really, really difficult decisions: Vegas or big wedding? Religious or civil ceremony? Big party or small gathering? The kids have settled all those issues, including where to hold the reception. The actual location of the ceremony (religious, which makes all the assorted parents smile) is still in the wind, though not for lack of trying. Seems the person in charge of such things at Sacred Heart in Duluth is no longer in her position. We’re all waiting to hear back as to whether the date selected by the kids is still available. If not, a change will need to be made. But of course, for the two mom’s involved in the process, more so for the mother of the bride but almost as important for Rene’, the mother of the groom, is this looming question: “What will I wear for the wedding?”

Now we guys, we have it easy. As the father of the groom, I will join my three other sons, Matt, Chris, and Jack, renting tuxedos along with the other guys in the groom’s wedding party. Simply show up, allow someone to tuck a tape measure up your crotch, stand around for a few moments feeling awkward, pay the tab, and the deed is done. All of the lamentations that accompany the decision making the two moms must go through are lacking. The choices are made for we men and there’s no allowance for deviation. I like simple. I like being a guy in a wedding. I wouldn’t want to be girl in this crazed process, bride, bride’s maid, or mom, for anything. Too many choices to be made. Too many decisions about my least favorite thing on the planet Earth: clothing.

So what’s up with the snapshot of the carnival at the Mall of America, you ask? Well, typically, I like to stay as far away from my wife and her clothes shopping as possible. After 35 years of marriage, I know the traps that a female on the hunt for a dress to wear at a formal event can set for her significant other. Been there; not falling for that. But sometimes, you just can’t say “no”. Like when your wife wants you to drive down with her to shop for a dress to wear at your second son’s wedding. So, a week ago tomorrow, when my wife proposed that I plop my wide ass in the driver’s seat of the Pacifica and join her in her sojourn to the Twin Cities on her vision quest, I had little choice. I said “yes”.

When we arrived at the Mall of America parking ramp in Bloomington, it was filled to the brim with cars and trucks.

“It’s pretty damn full,” I muttered, still a bit reluctant in my role as supportive husband.

“I wonder what’s up?”

The reasons behind the packed house at the Mall on a below zero Saturday in January became readily apparent as we stood at the railing on the 3rd floor of the shopping center and looked down on a huge crowd gathered in front of the mall’s stage. We’d wandered down from the tundra and walked smack dab into some sort of national cheerleading competition. The hallways were crammed with preteen and teen girls of all shapes, colors, and sizes walking with parents, watching other girls performing routines on the stage, or shopping in between their events.

“I think we found the reason for the packed parking lot.”

My wife nodded.

“I’m starved,” she said, looking around for the nearest eatery.

“Twin Cities Grill?”

“Sounds good.”

That’s one thing about the Mall of America. Whether it’s the Twin Cities Grill, Crave, Tony Roma’s, or a host of other classy joints, the chow is pretty darn good. Far better than the food court at the Miller Hill Mall in Duluth. The Twin City Grill has a bit of something for everyone. Our lunches were perfect. But the delay in the inevitable dress shopping was short-lived.

Mother of the Groom

“Call me if you find something you want me to see,” I offered, standing in the bustling throng of girls in short skirts, shorts, sparkles, and war paint.

“I will. I think I’ll check out Macy’s and Nordstrom’s. Let me guess. You’re going to Barnes and Noble.”

Indeed. We went our separate ways, connected eternally by not only love and vows, but by technology. I wandered around the BN store on the main floor of the mall, reminiscing about the two occasions the store had me come down and do readings and signings of my books. That was a long time ago, when BN was more interested in local authors. With Amazon and eBooks kicking the shit out of bricks and mortar bookstores, it’s nearly impossible for a little regional writer like me to get his face behind a table hawking books in any of the BN stores throughout the state. As I strolled around the store, stopping to peruse a copy of the Qua ran,  a sacred text I intend to read sooner than later, I grew weary of thinking about the status of books in America. I left the store and ambled around, people watching.

Like so many couples today, the message I received from my wife via cell phone wasn’t audible but in the form of a text.

“Frustrated. Can’t find anything. Looking for coffee.”

“Where are you?”

We made plans to meet in the food court for a cup of coffee. I met my wife at the top of the escalator.

“There’s nothing for summer out yet,” Rene’ said as we sat near a railing in the food court and looked out over the carnival atmosphere of the Mall of America. “It’s all winter stuff. Stuff for old women and little girls.”

“Nothing for a voluptuous, mature babe?”

My wife ignored my tainted compliment.

We left the big mall and spent some time at Rosedale, one of the old standbys my wife likes to visit when she is in a serious shopping mood. Again, Rene’ couldn’t find a dress she liked, one suitable for the mother of the groom.

In the end, we headed back north, dressless but happy. We made our ritual stop at Tobie’s in Hinckley for pastries and something to drink. The apple fritter and the cold milk I devoured as I drove home seemed a perfect end to a day with my wife.

Legoland

Peace.

Mark