Wooed by hopeful faces, I loaded the car with shoppers and headed to the mall today. Yes, today, on the darkest of all dark shopping days: Black Friday.
Now, I am always taken a bit aback when I hear about start of the Christmas shopping season, but in spite of all crowds and shopping hassles, I survived. The day had nothing of the doom I assume when I see Black capitalized, as in Black Death.
No, it was much more of a happy, bubble gum sort of day, I suspect named for Rebecca Black, who–now that I think of it–must have invented the holiday (see Black, “Friday”).
Well, sure, I was a little annoyed in the end by the messy shoppers who had completely overturned the $29.99 boot display before I could even look at them (originally priced $70-$100, damn it). Slightly peeved at paying $6.98 for a slice of greasy pizza and a soda.
But beyond this, all I can really remember are the Hollister boys.
Yes, the Hollister boys, those sort of 25-year-old eye candy that would have earned me a discount had I taken a picture of them and entered the cologne- and pounding-music-infused atmosphere that is Hollister.
But even then, even in the happiness of the moment, memories have a way of working their way into other thoughts. And once I got over the surprise of these buff boys, I thought this:
What if they had been bikini-clad females? Abercrombie and its network seem to thrive on half-naked men, which in some respect is seen as chic–if controversial. Artistic.
If women had paraded their corporal equivalent of the six pack in the store front, would it be so cute? Would it be so appealing?
Or would the models be sluts, asking for it, using their bodies to make a buck, degrading themselves, allowing corporate America to objectify the woman, once again?