Why I’d Rather Get Mauled by a Bear than Get a Bear at the Mall (theoretically)
I was recently asked what I have against shopping malls. “What are you, some kind of commie?” “You have something against capitalism?!” “Don’t you know that malls are what make the world go round?!”
1) Stay on topic
2) Sort of, but we’re talking about my aversion to MALLS
3) Isn’t that taught in seventh grade science?
So let’s examine my mall issues, shall we? I’m not against buying/selling/trading or eating greasy hot dogs on a stick for that matter. Sure, I prefer to buy my Steve Madden platforms online, but that’s just laziness, not fear. Malls are fine. Overpriced, but fine. I don’t even mind the occasional “Excuse me but would you like to sign up for Cricket and receive a free Samsung phone?”
My problem is with the trash bins. You read correctly. Trash bins give me the willy nillies. You see, it isn’t just a MALL problem. It’s a PARK problem. And a SPORTING EVENT problem. It’s even a PARTY AT BOB’S HOUSE problem. I walk around watching people drop cans, plastic, newspaper, and anything that I know can be recycled into the trash, and I have to fight every cell in my body’s urge to wait until they walk away, dig it out, take it home and add it to my vast collection of things that will eventually be saved from that abhorrent hell called LANDFILL. Some malls come with places to recycle stuff. And that actually makes me feel worse. Because when I see recyclable trash in a NON-recyclable trash bin, the urge to move said trash to the correct bin is astronomic.
“So why not just move the trash then?” you ask. Well, frankly, if I’m at the mall, I’d rather not work. Shopping is work enough for me. And trash relocation is a full-time job. Besides, who wants to be known as Digging Through Trash At The Mall Lady?
“So just ignore it then,” you say. If I could ignore your water bottle floating in a sea of Orange Julius cups, indeed I would be a free woman with absolutely nothing to blog about here. The problem is that I walk away from the water bottle with a nagging voice in my head going, “Waste. Apathy. Disregard. People suck. You suck.” And who wants that?
Do I need psychotherapy? I’m sure of it. Would an anti-anxiety drug help? I’d put my money on it.
But maybe you can help me and all the recycling crazies out there who are just like me. We need your help! Maybe you can teach your children (who may grow up to be mall-cruising teenagers) the importance of reducing, reusing, and recycling, not just because it’s the right thing to do or because it would make your great-great grandchildren proud that you cared enough about their future to save the very best, but because there’s this very sad woman who’s kids might like to build a bear at the mall someday. And, as Smoky says, “Only YOU can prevent forest fires.” But I guess that’s a story for another day.
So now I wanna know. What makes you certifiable?