That's Going to Leave a Mark
Back in the 90s, malls were all the rage. People would flock to the malls to do all their shopping, eat, play arcades, watch movies, and even just hang out. It wasn’t only for adults either. Groups of young kids would come to socialize and meet other people. Without social media to connect with others, it was the popular place to be. So, when I got invited to a birthday party at the mall, my young girl’s heart just knew; it would be a memory that would last a lifetime.
To make the party even more exciting, we would participate in a mall scavenger hunt. A fun window-shopping competition. The birthday girl’s parents split the large group of tween girls into two teams, each with a different list of items we needed to find within the mall and check off our list. The first team to finish their list would win prizes.
Bouncing with excitement, we all set off. Beginning on the bottom floor, weaving through the crowds, we began looking through windows to find our items as quickly as possible. We would work our way through the bottom floor, and then continue with the top floor where we would hopefully celebrate our win in the food court and arcade area. As my team found the required items and crossed them off our list, I paused for a moment to look at the next items we needed to find. Realizing I was being left behind, I looked up and started running as fast as my body could take me. I couldn’t miss a second of the epic party. As I hit top speed—SPLAT.
I may have made a mistake running to catch up to the others before my eyes registered anything in front of me. And somehow, in a twist, no one, seriously no one, could explain. I ran directly into a large, no HUGE, cement pole that was straight in front of me.
This “pole” was a load-bearing cement monstrosity supporting the second floor of a mall. This wasn’t a small pole that you could wrap your hands around. Not like a flagpole, a light pole, or even a power pole. No, this was a cement structure that could have been used to support a freeway bridge or a section of the Roman Colosseum.
And “splat” probably wasn’t an appropriate description. No, it was more like the sound you would hear when standing next to the largest bell in a tiny bell tower as it rings. It is so loud your senses get confused. You start to feel the sound.
Well, all 500 people on the top and bottom floors of the mall felt the sound I made. To top it off, the splat kept echoing up and down the corridors, giving every last person at the mall an opportunity to experience the musical masterpiece I created.
As I came to… who knows if I was actually out or not? All I know is one second, I was running—then I was on the ground painfully opening my eyes to hundreds of people looking out of shop windows, hanging over the upper balcony, or running… to see me.
If people hadn’t realized I caused the commotion, my small frame lying prostrate in the middle of the floor probably pointed it out. Or maybe they were drawn to the unearthly shade of my red face. If neither of those did the trick, there was no missing the bump that formed on my forehead. I had seen cartoon head injuries, always laughing at how unnaturally fast the bump would grow to an outrageous size. I didn’t know that could happen in real life.
A man and woman ran towards me from the nearest shop.
As the man made it to me, he gasped in shock. “Oh wow! Look at that bump. That’s going to leave a mark.”
Incredulously, the woman with him replied, “I’m pretty sure it already has.”
To my utmost horror, after the red drained away from my face and after I was moved to a different location, I still couldn’t hide from my embarrassment. I was marked.
The prize I won during an unforgettable scavenger hunt through the mall.
A prize that almost 30 years later has still left its mark. Thankfully, though, no longer cartoon-style.
No, you can’t see it (unless you are a Radiologist completing a brain MRI questioning why there is a small patch of white matter on the brain under the patient’s forehead), but if you pass your hand over my forehead—you can still feel it.
Sometimes, as I stroke my “bump”, as I so lovingly call it, I realize the excitement in my young girl’s heart wasn’t wrong.
The memory has lasted a lifetime.
