And to the mall it was…

On Saturday, after what felt like half a lifetime, the spouse, the child and I, spit polished ourselves and adorned ourselves in non festive raiment and took ourselves to the mall down the road. Inorbit. The hallowed portals. We had visited it sporadically over the past year or so, but in a rushed manner that normally comprised the viewing of a kiddie flick, followed by ingestion of calorific junk food, or the purchase of some toy which brought instant nirvana which would last all of a day until the urge for the next toy on the list became overwhelming.
We had not done this going to the mall ‘like a family’ in the words of a child, for a long, long time. Read, both parents frogmarching him into the zone of hedonistic purchasing.
We landed in the airconditioned, fragrant environs of Shoppers Stop with the husband trawling through his usual culprit brands, grumbling away from the trial rooms that some evil conspiracy had made every brand shrink their sizes to burst button levels. “Damn and blast..” and more verbosity on the lines that made me clamp my palms on the ears of the spawn of his womb. And declare that there was no way I was going to stand around and have the child listen to this language, and have the child prise my fingers off insistently and ask me whether “Maa Ki Chaudhary” was a very bad word, and why was Chaudhary’s maa considered a bad word. Whether she was a very ‘strick’ maa. I nodded hastily and hoped that was the end of that.
The man wandered into changing rooms bearing sizes he had grown out of over the past year that he had not shopped and kept hurling expletives as he tried to contain his, err, prosperity in said outgrown size.
It took the child to inform him that, “Pops, you is become a big boy now. Dat size is become small fer you.”
Much redfacedness and new next size later all was well and fitting and nothing ended up being purchased because the man took solemn oath on all that was holy, in his case, his wallet, to get back into lost size before buying any new clothes.
The child wandered into the toy and DVD sections at Crossword and emerged bearing Nerf Gun, Ironman DVD and assorted Transformers and SpyGear.
I strolled along the ladies section and looked at the wares in display. The spouse looked at the empty shopping bag I was trailing along. “So,” he asked, looked puzzled, “What are you buying?”
In a check my temperature and rush me to the doc right now moment, I replied, “Nothing.”
I didn’t feel like buying anything. It came from just having shifted home and seeing, packed in cartons and bags, the sheer number of clothes, bags, shoes, sunglasses and such like I owned. Half of which never ever got used (yes, decluttered happened and around 8 pairs of sunglasses, ten handbags and god knows how many pairs of slippers and shoes were given away over the past month).
Half of which I didn’t fit into right now at current expanded waist levels anyway and were still being held onto in the fond hope that someday my listless walking would manage to whittle me back into wolf whistle inducing shape. And given the new wardrobe was a reduction and a comedown from the six door Goliath of the previous one, I have no storage space either. Ergo. No. The spouse stared in open mouthed shock. “Are you serious?”
He almost sat me down and checked my pulse, and asked for some water to be brought for splashing on face purposes. “Serious.” I didn’t feel like buying anything. And so we emerged. Both having both, save three shirts the spouse picked up, close on nothing.
Could it be that I’m finally, finally, growing up?