Looking down the escalator at the mobs of people moving like ants over a discarded apple, I panic. There is no escape. The stairs move in only one direction, and I’m trapped amidst a Michelin Man-sized family unit consisting of four-point-five: Mom, in blue feeding number point-five from a bottle; Dad, in his hunter orange cameo hat ogling Minnesota teenage mall-fashion; Richard, in all black sitting down probably pondering how to set the Mall of America on fire while spinning his lip ring; and I’m in my favorite pair of jean desperately trying to look cute.
Then Dad, God, I love him, says, “George, just because were in the Twin Cities doesn’t mean they’re all gay like you. City boys have this thing called,” he pauses, “Honey what was that you told me about the Twin Cities boys liking to…you know…dress all fantasy like.”
“Metro…”
Dad finishes, “sexual. Yeah, metro sexual.” He looks at me as we disembark from the escalator, “So, don’t hit on every hot guy you see okay.”
I’m devastated that my Dad thinks that he’s doing me a favor by taking a vacation to the Mall of America, so that I can try to pick up boys while they shop. God! I love him for trying.
“Boys, text us when you’re ready for lunch,” Mom calls as she heads into a
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