First Posted: 5/1/2015
Valley Maria went to the King of Prussia Mall, but it was exactly the same vibe as Country Mouse in the Big City.
My friends and I thought we deserved a day shopping in stores that don’t have Dollar Days or Blue Light Specials. Not that there’s anything wrong with that, but we wanted to see how the other half lives. Here’s my conclusion: not much different, just better credit cards.
We arrived and flung ourselves through the portal leading to this Mecca of Excessiveness. We wandered and gazed as we had never before seen a store dedicated 100 percent to flip flops. Flip Flop Shop, literally. It was all so confusing — and questionable. There was a store named Garbage. Or Garage. Or Dumpster. I can’t remember. Judging from the window display, I can tell you the Hefty bag I just flung down the Donation Drop Box had better-looking clothes than the ones adorning the wiry mannequins featuring the look of Homeless Chic.
We finally found what I’d previously fantasized (judging by the ads in Glamour magazine) may be my most favorite establishment ever: H&M. Ugh, not so much. Every piece of clothing was made from fabric not found in nature and was highly flammable. I was the oldest female in that joint by 30 years, easily. I felt ridiculous in my old lady walking shoes and sensible cardigan. I feigned interest in their “Coachella” line, but the fringe kept poking me in the eye every time I swung the hanger around to see if it came in sizes larger than XX-Small, Petite, Elfin and Chihuahua. Nothing did. H&M, we decided, means Hot Mess.
My friend made a beeline to Forever 21 which I was no longer feeling confident about entering. The place was bursting with twerking 12-year-old girls who looked like Miley on a very, very bad day. There was hysteria, there were inappropriate hand gestures, and there were tears. And that was just me. Hurriedly exiting, my friend summed it up best: It’s called Forever 21 because it’ll take every little brat in there forever to turn 21.
After warily circling the scary-expensive stores like Cartier and Hermes, and poking our heads in pretending we didn’t see anything to our liking, I finally found a store that didn’t scare the crap out of me. I immediately skidded to the clearance rack (you can take the mouse out of the valley, but…) and found a flirty little skirt that won’t show my granny panties nor require WD-40 to zip. I excitedly trotted up to the checkout counter where the bored and surly Main Line Villanova lacrosse check-out snob looked at me and, barely stifling a yawn, announced the price.
But, I objected. “It’s 40 percent off, right?”
She sighed. “No. This is the final price!”
I persisted. “How do you know?”
She glared. “Uh, because, it says, like, right on the sticker: Final price.”
I couldn’t argue, but, take 40 percent off that attitude you little…
After tunneling herself out of that behemoth of mass consumerism and grossness, Country Mouse happily scurried back to the Valley with a new attitude. We may have Dollar Days and Goodwill Sales here, but no one will make me feel like an old, cardigan-wearing loser who needs a whole store full of rubber sandals made by children laborers in Bangladesh to feel superior. They can have their Cartier. I have TJ Maxx, where sizes exceed that of an under-developed pygmy and cashiers don’t sneer at me to my face.
