There's no place like the mall.

They also sell enormous cinnamon rolls.

Last night at a department store, a gorgeous cosmetics rep let me sample a liquid foundation developed in France. Then she pitched a wrinkle serum she insists will spark a revolution and re-activate my youth in just one week.

No part of me wants revolutionary French goo. Except. Every cell in my body wants the goo. It’s from France. I want ultraviolet damage and my lines erased. In one week. I am middle aged and going to die, and the sight of this beauty queen's skin reminds me of that.

Whatever. I’m more frugal than vain. I won't drop 84 bucks…wait, did she just say seven days? I won’t be consumerized, but I become as passive as a hot dog. A pump's worth of serum not unlike mustard is drizzled on my wrinkly left hand. When commanded to massage it, I obey.

Then I muse, “So it hydrates the skin…is that how it works?” I am waaaaay off.

The skincare expert clarifies: “Noooooo! It gets into your genes!”

(My hormonally-imbalanced self whispers a prayer for help. Seriously. You know you're in trouble when a chromosomal implausibility sounds so utterly COOL.)

I needed to feel less ancient. So naturally I headed to a shop with posters of barely dressed models and deafening dance muzak blaring from the speakers. The fact I know full well this bare-blare combination triggers panic attacks is beside the point.

The point is, I am always a little possessed by a demon at the mall. The point is I found a canvas tote for 70% off, and it looks French! The point is shopping for luxuries is depressing and causes mall syndrome. The point is excessive anxiety leaves me wisdom-impaired and forces me into small talk with 16-year-old goddesses ringing me up.

“I wish this bag had outside pockets like my old one! And it would be nice if more of your dresses had pockets! Ya know? You should pass that along to the powers that be.”

Some of us clearly have the spiritual gift of awkwardness.

Everybody knows "powers that be" trips an uncool-old-geezer switch when spoken loudly over muzak into mall air. It is almost as fatal as “it is what it is.” You could feel it. Mayday! Mayday! There’s an old lady in here!

Her impeccably tweezed brows shot up as she shared: “Ha ha. Yeah. I once bought this dress, and I wore it and then I found out it had pockets! And I DIDN’T EVEN KNOW.”

Her admission temporarily exorcised the demon; no prayer needed. Just sayin. She “didn’t even know.”

Before I left the mall, I passed a chubby grandpa raving to a desperately bored twenty-something guy working at the bookstore. Grandpa yelled “YOU CAN ACTUALLY TAME A TIGER WITH ONE OF THOSE THINGS! IT’S A ONE WAY TRIP TO THE MOON, BUT IT WORKS!”

Maybe he said "Tiger" and not "a tiger." Both work for me. Like free ear candy.

Malls everywhere are struggling to breathe. A sad suburban joke like the midlife me. But the souls within them still connect. Imperfect strangers—some layering on more armor than others—accidentally touch each other and have trippy conversations.

As I exited the bookstore, a young woman with many tattoos held the door. She overheard the yelling grandpa too. We were both grinning. Our eyes met as she mouthed one syllable.

“DAMN!”

Michele has a husband, two children, a master's in counseling, and a blog at hellolovelychild.com.