When holiday magic
When I was a kid growing up in Southeast Asia, the closest I ever came to celebrating a “normal” Thanksgiving holiday was eating turkey dogs on the fourth Thursday of November.
So my family came up with fun traditions to perform or endure during the late fall holiday season. Usually we try to do something unique, or something that would provoke jealousy or perhaps disgust in those that listen to our tales.
Last week we went on vacation to New York City (jealousy) where I had lots of fun doing activities like watching the Macy’s parade in person (more jealousy) and going to the bathroom somewhere in Chinatown (definite disgust). Actually, I think the former activity was the one that involved a more serious health hazard.
While I had fun in New York, I had plenty of opportunity to ponder on what I consider my personal hell.
I believe there are varying degrees of hatred that one can experience in this life, from mild discomfort to downright, beastly revulsion.
For example, I disliked the smell of Bourbon Street in New Orleans when I was there a couple weeks ago. I also can’t stand dogs that don’t look like dogs, like the Chinese crested, an entity that should be extinct. Google it. Told you so.
With a little more zest I can say that I hate some things too, like NASCAR or the canyon winds blowing across campus on cold mornings.
Unless it’s part of another interesting sport, I despise running. I detest stubbing my toes on ill-placed furniture. Nothing short of abhorrence could describe how I feel about country music.
I loathe mayonnaise.
But perhaps the worse type of hate would involve a personal definition of hell. For my father-in-law, hell involves working with and trying to fix broken sprinklers for eternity.
For me, the closest I have come to enduring what I would define as my personal hell would be narrowly surviving the department store, Century 21 in downtown New York City.
After a couple days of living in the holiday shopping madness, I was drained with energy and my will to survive crowded situations with the endless jostling and invasions of my personal space.
Generally, I don’t go shopping, especially in clothing stores because they never carry articles that would fit me. So I usually follow my wife around until she gets annoyed at the constant giant shadow trailing her every move.
Then I try and find somewhere to sit for the rest of the visit and engage in more satisfying activities like waiting – or getting those hidden treasures out of my nose.
The day after Thanksgiving, my mom suggested we have a look in Century 21, because there are “great designer clothing bargains” to be found.
This grand department store experience felt like getting yard-time in prison. You have to smell a lot more people than you’re used to, you have no idea what they’re hiding in their shopping bags, you always have someone in your way, and you aren’t allowed to leave, at least not until the women are done shopping.
I must have missed the giant bucket outside with the sign that says, “Insert brains here before entering store.”
I have observed the horizontal movement of my wife through a store while shopping, and as a scientist have decided that the motion can best be described as “without pattern.”
Now add a couple thousand people moving in a similar way inside Century 21, and hell on earth materializes. Admittedly, it gets a little hotter and more hellish closer to the women’s glove section.
Nobody knows where they are going and what they want to see next. Nobody can see over racks and shelves like I can to avoid bottlenecks of people, and because everyone left their hippocampus outside, they couldn’t remember where they had already been in the store. It’s a good thing “bargains” could be found everywhere.
The store didn’t have any waiting chairs, so all the men also walked around aimlessly, like zombies wondering what they were supposed to do with themselves.
After the obligatory 4-minute perusal of the Men’s clothing section, I found a spot to stand and wait and hope I wouldn’t die of sanity loss.
Black Friday shopping can seem pretty awful here in Utah, but comparing it to the Ebola-like, New York City shopping atmosphere makes the Logan version seems like nothing a little hydrocortisone can’t cure.
Getting stuck in a giant store with infinitely long aisles of handbags, shoes, cosmetics, perfumes and items that are routinely described as “really cute” is my personal idea of hell. Add a hefty mélange of people, nonstop Christmas music, no waiting chairs, and seemingly only one exit – golly, I would rather SWIM in mayo.
The redeeming factor with the Century 21 experience was that I was able to witness a shoplifter get apprehended – just a little something to cheer about.
Plus, instead of listening to old Uncle Earl’s “timeless” jokes all weekend, I got to spend Thanksgiving in New York City and you didn’t.
Jealous?
Comments or column ideas can be sent to Garrett Wheeler at g.wheel@aggiemail.usu.edu.