The Mall Raised Us. I Wish My Kids Had The Same Rite Of Passage.

I never thought a Wetzel Pretzel could make me cry. But on a Friday night, the smell of melted butter on warm bread hit me like a memory, and I found myself texting a childhood friend: Oh my gosh, I’m at the mall with my kids and their friends, and I keep getting flashbacks to me and you romping around here for hours when we were their age.

A few weeks earlier, my kids, 12 and 7, told me that all they wanted for their birthdays was to each invite a friend on a shopping spree at the indoor shopping center about 20 minutes from our house. I promised them $30 each, dinner in the food court, and a couple of hours to explore in a real, live mall. Something, I realized with horror, they’d never done before.

I grew up in the mall, and likely you did too. That night, stepping into it felt like walking into my childhood home. Everything was as I had left it — the greasy food court below, flashy window displays, and an eclectic mix of people. Suddenly, I missed it terribly.

In trading in-person experiences for e-commerce, I’m not sure we got the better deal.

The mall offered us our first taste of independence.

By age 11 or 12, I was spending my babysitting money at the mall. My friend and I would promise to meet my mom or hers at a designated spot by a specific time, and then we were off. Just her and me for an hour or two. It was a rite of passage, and we loved how grown-up it made us feel. No cell phones. No smartwatches. Heck, half the time, we had no watch at all.

We relied on intuition, strangers, and the occasional sales associate to keep track of time. Occasionally, we got lost or ran late, forcing us to problem-solve and practice street smarts.

In the mall, we also learned to read a map, ask for directions, and stretch our money by hunting for sales. Calculating 10–40% off, plus sales tax, was essential for a preteen girl on a budget, and I was proud of my decimal-moving superpowers.

The mall was our entertainment.

When I was little, my parents sold my mom’s car off to afford the down payment on their first house. Living in a city with poor public transport, we were suddenly home — a lot. But every Wednesday morning, my friend’s mother used to pick us up and take us to the mall. We’d get kids’ meals from McDonald’s, then we kids would run up and down the blue-carpeted ramp in the food court while our moms chatted.

We’d browse The Gap and other stores, and get a day-old cookie at the bakery on the way out. I looked forward to Wednesday all week.

As I grew older, the mall continued to entertain. As a teen, it was the place to shop for prom dresses, perfume, and cute undies. Later, it’s where I hunted for my first “big girl job” wardrobe.

In-person shopping is a sensory experience.

Online, a picture isn’t really worth a thousand words when Photoshop and models make everything look perfect.

In-person shopping is a more fulfilling sensory experience. Run fabric through your fingers. Soft? Itchy? Cheap and thin, or luxurious and soft? Try it on. How does it sit on your hips? Which color complements your skin tone?

Returning to the mall, I fell for brands striving to create quality clothing — and felt disenchanted with some old favorites that looked cheap in person. I realized that things I might put in my cart online I’d never choose in person. And vice versa.

But some mall experiences aren't so hunky dory...

Fluorescent-lighted try-on rooms? Brutal. I remember grimacing at acne patches, cellulite, and flyaways in the try-on rooms, overcome by a sweep of insecurity. It was the worst. At 37 years old, three kids deep, I’d still like to avoid a harsh lit try-on room — though I don’t obsess about cellulite anymore.

Then there was the way certain stores like Abercrombie & Fitch or Hollister made you feel. That musky, woody blast of Fierce perfume as you walked in. The club vibe music. The walls plastered in half-naked models. It was all meant to make us chase after this impossible brand of cool, and it worked.

I walked through those stores acutely aware of everything I thought was wrong with my body, my clothes, my place in the social hierarchy. Most of the time, I left believing another graphic tee could fix it all.

But such is the way of the mall: You must face your insecurities head-on, and, at the end of the day, your boobs looked great in that 20% off t-shirt, didn’t they?

The mall held that kind of power over us.

I want to start taking my kids there.

I don’t remember exactly when the mall stopped being part of my life. I think it was around the time I had my first kid, 13 years ago, and discovered the ease of online shopping. No loading the kid in and out of the car for that one thing, now just a click away.

I know I’ll never shop in malls as often as I once did, but I would like to take my kids a few times a year, so they can experience some of the highs and lows of in-person shopping the way I did as a young person.

The world may push us online, but the rebel in all of us should push back. Malls raised us, after all.