One miracle at a time.

Tonight I went to the Brea Mall.  Alex and I were meeting up with some friends for a casual gathering at a nearby restaurant, and I decided I needed to take advantage of the 45 minutes the mall was open to get in my girly portion of late Spring/early summer clothing shopping.  Alex dropped me off and went to meet our friends at the restaurant.

I already had a plan – to find the information booth, rent a wheelchair, and do as much as I could around H & M in those 45 minutes.  Unfortunately, both times I called customer service to ask about the location of the information booth/wheelchairs, they gave me very general directions, assuming I could wander around to find it.  The second time I spoke to the woman I even said, “No, really. I can’t walk. That is why I need a wheelchair.  Please give me specific directions to the wheelchairs.” She still sent me in the wrong direction, telling me to “turn right” when I was at a cross-section with five possible hallways to walk down. Funny.

I rented the wheelchair, and after hearing that I had “15 minutes” until it had to be returned, I jetted off as fast as my little arms could take me to H & M. Navigating a clothing store in a wheelchair is tricky, especially when the store is of the type that tries to cram in as much clothing with as little aisle space as possible, and especially when you are rushing to meet the deadline of the management company who has rented you the wheelchair and is currently in position of your debit card.

I think it went fairly well.  Aside from a few bumps into railings, a few jostlings of hangers, the difficulty of balancing clothing and my purse on my lap, and the near run-ins with other shoppers, it went well. I did not hit anyone.  I did not knock anything over. I did receive kind looks and help from strangers (which I am sure would have quickly turned to confused and slightly angry looks when they saw me walk out of the mall unassisted on my own two feet).

The best part of the night happened when I returned the wheelchair to the kiosk.  As I stepped out of the wheelchair onto the mall floor, I heard a young man exclaim in an Italian accent,

“It’s a miracle!”

(Come on, people.  An Italian accent. In Los Angeles. Who are we kidding here?)

So I think I will continue to repeat this phrase (“It’s a miracle!”) to myself every time I need a little laugh. How silly that my act of standing up from a wheelchair inspired a stranger to declare, “It’s a miracle!”

On a side note, I was 40 minutes late returning the wheelchair. The kiosk was abandoned, forcing me to explore abandoned, concrete, creepy hallways to knock on the management door and retrieve my debit card.  Life is an adventure indeed.