This weekend, my son and I did something that we both detest: we went shopping. For me, it defies the genetic makeup of my gender to not relish going to the mall, but my son’s age and gender both dictate that he hate such excursions. So strangely enough, this is something upon which we agree: we simply don’t like shopping.

But this trip to the mall was required. You see, just two months ago when I bought for Dylan four pairs of new pants, he resisted my seemingly unreasonable pleas to try on the pants, wanting, I suppose, to be “surprised,” leaving the mystery as to whether or not the clothes fit to be revealed only minutes before the school bus arrived. Not surprisingly, I was forced to take back two pairs of pants on a subsequent trip to the mall during which I was unaccompanied by the beneficiary of said shopping trip.

When I came home that second time, everything fit.

Until, of course, the pants went into the dryer, at which point we were the proud owners of one pair that was ready for donation. And that other pair I’d picked out, the ones of which he was not so fond, they tore. Accidentally. Must have caught on something. Not sure. But the 16 inch tear on the back side of the pants looks scissor-straight. Just the same, they can no longer be worn.

So my son needed some new pants.

And given that his shoes were barely more than rubber-soled sock ornaments, it was time for some new tennies as well.

So Saturday morning, off we went to the mall.

I checked my watch when I parked the car, wondering how long we’d both be tortured by the shopping trip. You see, my son can be picky and will only wear cargo pants but, voila!, they were on sale. We found two pairs almost immediately in what's purported to be his size (he took them into the dressing room and returned with them off the hanger, draped not-so-neatly over his arm, the hem dragging on the floor, so I assume there's at least a chance he tried them on).

We stood in line for a much longer duration of time to pay for them, during which my son took possession of my cell phone and entertained mostly himself with the beeps and buzzes as he “composed” a new ring tone for me. My Mozart-like child prodigy, armed with a Motorola, was able to annoy the shit out of nearly everyone within earshot, which, I suspect, was his goal.

And then we were off to find some shoes.

We usually buy his shoes online but I was in the mood for some conclusion so I insisted that he wallow with the swine and buy his shoes at the mall. He snubbed a few stores that we passed before he settled on one with which he'd grace his presence. We went in and waited and waited and waited before the indolent and tattooed teenager behind the counter concluded his conversation on his personal cell phone and was forced to help us. My son's feet are two different sizes so, again, we disturbed said teenage worker when we insisted that we have the LEFT shoe to try on (instead of the right one he'd labored to lace up). After trying on just two pairs, we'd hit paydirt.

As we stood at the counter, waiting to pay an enormous amount of money for some goofy looking, black clodhoppers, the kid said, “You want some black footies to go along with these?”

“Huh?” Back in my day, I thought, only goobers wore dark socks with anything but dress shoes.

“Some black footies...he’ll get white lint inside his shoes if he wears white socks with ‘em.”

“I’m not sure that either one of us is overly concerned with lint inside his shoes.”

“But he’ll look weird if he wears these shoes with white socks.”

I spun quickly, avoiding eye contact with my son, and looked towards the center of the mall. “Throw them in then,” I said, over my shoulder, without turning to face the kid behind the counter, the one with the green-tinged Mohawk, with the pierced lip and the sleeve of tattoos down his arm, with the earlobe spacers in each ear, the kid who seemed so sincerely concerned that my son would look weird in white socks. I knew if I made eye contact with my son, we’d both spill onto the floor in laughter.

I checked my watch when we got back to my car and declared our outing successful, given that we’d achieved our goals AND we’d left the mall less than 30 minutes after arriving. Moreover, we weren’t even arguing. “Let’s go grab some lunch somewhere,” I suggested and, not yet sick of my company, my son agreed. But within a few minutes, a stench filled the air.

“What the…?” I looked over and saw that my son had taken off his old shoes, his old socks, and was digging in his bag of new purchases and pulling out the new socks.

He held them up and smiled. “I’ve got to put on the black ones, Mom. You wouldn’t want me to look weird, now would you?”