Who’d a thot that the evolution of the species could fine-tune the DNA encoded shopping gene to an even greater degree, to the point that the proximity-sensing cilia could begin their frantic vibrations in the presence of designer bags and malls at ranges outward of fifteen miles?
Driving through Oklahoma City, my own first realization came in the form of a gentle cooing from the backseat, recognizable as being that of our seventeen year old only when it advanced into a steady and unrelenting drone, interspersed at points with the single, desperate word … mall. Our business completed, and only the drive home ahead of us, the two of us in the front seats found ourselves in a particularly vulnerable state, glazed in guilt at having had to require their presence for the decidedly unadventurous morning appointment.
Still, we had not prepared for mall visitation. I tried to remain strong against the not-so-subtle near-chant, understanding it was only in biological response to the siren-song of the boutique or the scent of the cosmetics counter, both well beyond my own hearing and olfactory abilities. Recognizing the smooth-tiled chrome and glass savannah as her native predatory expanse, I felt the hair tickling at the back of my neck as my skin drew taut, and I tell you brothers and sisters, I was mightily afraid.
I claimed ignorance, loudly and at once. Oklahoma City was too large, too broad, too under-signed - impossible for me to know the location of any suitable locations. I continued driving, trying to imagine following in her wake, straggling behind her muscular and well-rehearsed shopping stride, grazing and gazing amidst the earrings and leather goods.
Throwing myself at the mercy of Prada and Gucci, I made promises that now shame me, even as the droning from the back began to fade. In the waves of relief that followed, I flicked the turn signal and altered our course into the now-safe outer lane, only to spot a telescoped-pole capped with the sign of the golden arches.
Inhaling sharply, and with the knowledge that a five-year-old disciple sat directly behind me, I glanced into the mirror, only to find him fast asleep against the armrest, obviously lulled into his innocent and idyllic slumbers by the steady murmuring of his sister.
There will come a mutant gene to address that masculine reaction, a final evolution, a tweaking of the hereditary hunter-gatherer chromosome that will mark the onset of the Neoshopping Age.
And I’ll be spinning happily in my grave.
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