Stompin’ in my Air Force 1s

I never thought that mall walking could send me into a frenzy of existential self-reflection, but to be fair, there’s a lot of things that surprise me these days. While I was on maternity leave with my second baby, thanks to frigid temperatures in Minnesota, I did a lot of mall walking. Depending on the day and which mall I chose as my window-less walking track, I found myself in various types of company.

At the smaller, spendier mall in the frou-frou part of town, I was mostly in the company of cute older people – retired couples and groups of silver haired, Eileen Fisher-wearing ladies who lunch. From them I got lots of positive reinforcement. Coos at the sleeping baby, little pep talks and the (sometimes) appreciated reminder to savor these moments because they are gone in the blink of an eye. Aside from making me feel icky as I briefly considered my own mortality and the incredibly fleeting nature of life itself, I liked my brief chats with these sweet grandparents. They made me feel young and impressive – not only had I just birthed a baby, but here I was upright and out in public.

With the moms I met through a “second time mamas” group at a local parenting center, we usually frequented a bigger mall that had all the most popular stores. In our sweatpants and with unwashed hair, we walked side-by-side as we made endless loops around the mall and talked about baby poop and fluctuating hormones. Here, the mostly middle-aged clientele consisted of older dads who loved to throw their hands up in the air and say “watch out for the stroller gang!” like it was the most original thing in the world, and ladies who were popping in to grab their fave $50 face moisturizer at Sephora. The cheesy dads and semi-retired women made me feel comfortably young and fresh, still toting around babies while their kids were already leaving the nest.

Because it’s close to my house, when it’s too cold to breathe outside, I also go for walks around the Mall of America. There are people who travel from all over the country to shop at this mall with full-size rollercoasters in the middle of it, but for me it’s just another place to walk and window shop as the snow keeps falling outside. This mall is, of course, full of all kinds of people, but the groups I always notice are the teens. Sometimes they are there in big swarms wearing matching sports jerseys, excitedly attending some type of tournament nearby. Other times they’re in smaller groups, BFFs spending their easily earned allowances on overpriced Lululemon leggings and wide leg Levi’s.

Seeing them makes me remember when going to the mall was just about the only parent-approved high school extra-curricular activity in the Michigan suburb where I grew up. When my friends and I used to go to the mall, we were dressed to impress. Makeup, probably an awful, oversized belt on an incredibly low-rise pair of jeans, hair straightened within an inch of its life. We were probably meeting some boys there, though we told our parents we were just going to be shopping at Abercrombie and they could meet us back in the food court at a pre-appointed meeting time unless we called from one of the payphones to ask for a little more time.

While thinking about my teenage life before cell phones makes me feel old enough, as I make loops around the mall and observe the gaggles of teens spending their Saturdays, I suddenly feel even older when I realize I could be their mom. If I’d had a baby in my early twenties, I could have a child with a driver’s license. I could be the one dropping them off at the mall and funding their expensive shopping habits. But I wouldn’t be dropping off an awkward teen whose lipstick is getting stuck on their unsightly braces. Young people these days are different. They’re undoubtedly more self-assured than I’ve ever been. They wouldn’t be caught dead straightening their hair - they wear it long and natural with effortlessly cool outfits. They have skin routines. They wear baggy pants without a care for what their teenage boy counterparts think of them.

And sometimes, I see what they’re wearing, and I start wondering where they got their shirt and if it would look cute on me. This is where I start to feel a little crazy. Here I am, someone who could be their mother, thinking their white Nike Air Force 1s, drawstring joggers and cropped sweatshirt would be a great weekend outfit. I wander into Abercrombie and realize I’m simultaneously reminiscing about my most iconic high school fashion while also grabbing a few pairs of high-rise jeans to try on my, umm, more seasoned body. It’s not lost on me that there’s a whole section of jeans called the “mom jean.” The 20-somethings are wearing them ironically, but I’m definitely not.

Shouldn’t I have settled into some kind of non-descript but middle-age-appropriate haircut and clothing I bought from Talbots by now? Why am I in Abercrombie and Fitch when I’m old enough to remember when it was cool the first time? Maybe I have age dysmorphia, where instead of being able to see myself how others see me, I look in the mirror and see someone who’s young and cool, up with the Tik Tok trends and can shop in the Wild Fable section at Target. I watch the Bachelor and feel like I’d fit right in with these women and all their tea until I sit back a second and absorb the fact that most of them are more than 15 years my junior and I’m closer to being cast on Golden Bachelor than I am on that show. Excuse me, when did that happen?

Suddenly my mall walking was making me think about more than I had bargained for. Can I feel young but be old(ish) at the same time? As elder Millenials, we’ve always been on the cusp of things. Half of our lives with social media, half without. From Nokia brick cell phones to second limb iPhones. From Encarta to A.I. Maybe it’s not surprising that we’re trendier than our own moms. We’ve always had to evolve, and certainly have a literal arsenal of new tools to help preserve our youth for that many more years. Maybe you can’t blame me for liking a crisp pair of white Nike’s. After all, I was in high school when Nelly put stompin’ in Air Force 1s on the map.

Whether it was just another grab at staying young for a little while longer, or it was the intoxicating and familiar smell as I walked past Bath and Body Works that put me in the right mood, I did march into Foot Locker, and I bought the shoes. And I wear them to daycare pickup. And I guess I don’t care if I’m too old for them.