For a good time, go to the Mall of America. It's large, but you can get your work done there.
Case in point: we went to MOA with a mission, a list (for focus), and a dream. For mrguy, a camera. For me, shoes.
Although we did not encamerate, I did emerge with three pairs of shoes, two bras, festive socks, some corporate hottie pants that somehow say "I'm credible *and* I'm having a good butt day" cheese curds and a tummy full of crepe. Not bad, I say. This is magic that cannot happen at home.
At home I am afraid of department stores: both the crowds, and hometown body dysmorphia that causes me to bring smaller garments into the changing room than I can possibly coax over my husky carcass. Switch to vacation time and I don't know what it is...the relaxation, the beer, whatever, but I can almost do no wrong in the changing room. Just set me up in the Nordstrom Rack in the Mall of America and I'm good.
I'm clothed, fed, amused (heard an overhead announcement asking for a woman named "Page Turner") and resisted the lure of the people selling pet hermit crabs in a kiosk called "Crabs of Hawaii."
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