Midnight madness in the mall

Midnight Madness came late this year. Competitors rose early, having trained for months in anticipation of this yearly epic event. The battled for position, bargained with the authorities, and exchanged language historically relegated to the baseball field. At 1:00 a.m. last Friday, the games began.

Men and women, actually mostly women, crowded the doors to the mall in anticipation of the middle of the night start of "Black Friday." Though the nickname for the "holiday" has supposed economical roots in the stores' transition from "in the red" to newly turned profit, it is more likely that it received its title as a result of the harrowing terror that surrounds the day whose name can only be spoken in hushed voices. Naturally, I was game.

Having never participated in what seemed to be such a national pastime, I felt the need to further my economy by reinvesting what income I have back into society. Through the mall.

My mother, however, was not to be convinced and assured me that she would go along with me as soon as the sun rose. Two and a half hours from home, and my meager 50-store mall including kiosks, we arrived in the bustling city of Birmingham, Alabama.

Sunrise seemed practical enough. After all, I asked my fellow mall-bound girlfriends, who would willingly participate in the Vegas style of shopping featuring brightly lit stores, blasting bands, and an overflowing parking lot that early — or late? I had obviously underestimated my friends.

"I've been every year for the past three years," said one. "It's great, because by six, you've finished all your shopping!"

"My mom and I went last year," said another. "We got a hotel room and everything." A hotel room? Weren't you at the mall by one? Why bother with a hotel room? "If you don't look nice, they won't wait on you," she replied. "Best to get dressed up with some makeup and curls."

Apparently, even in the dark, these women continue to flock to the malls, taking advantage of the distinct sales: 20 percent off before 11 a.m., free cashmere scarfs before 9 a.m., and even the promise of an "extra 15 percent off the already half-off reductions of yesterday's buddy bucks." Too much to figure out that early.

I settled for the predawn, but hardly middle of the night, wake up call that would allow me to hunt for what I figured would be a less than sought-after item on such a day as "Black Friday:" a Debutante dress.

Walking into the national store, name withheld due to pending alterations, I expected the small town shopping experience of dress buying: enter, browse, select, try on, buy. Apparently, there is protocol.

"Miss, could you fill this out for me?" asked a dashing young man in pink. Examining the sheet, I started explaining that I was not in fact a bride and would not need to provide such details as a date, my shoe size, or three phone numbers for emergency contact. "Protocol," he chirped, walking away. "The ones with trains are in the center racks, just so you know."

I proceeded to the outer racks, examining "deb" dresses — merely wedding dresses in denial as far as I can tell. My mother and I began pulling out simple ones, less froufrou, less train, compiling a stack to take back to the dressing room. Just then, Nivea, our bridal consultant, appeared.

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"Hi, you'll be taking just one dress back at a time, and remember, in bridal gowns, go up at least two to four sizes above your regular size." Stunned, staring at my pile of accurately sized selections, I asked if she was kidding. Guys, this is the equivalent of someone telling you that not only can you not leave without trying on the two T-shirts that you like, but that you must also bring only one of them back at a time, making sure that the size you pull of the rack does not even resemble the one you wore into the store. All the while reminding them that you are not in a wedding and have not had your morning Diet Coke. I can program an OIT password, but the etiquette of buying a white dress is obviously beyond me.

Then came the rules for trying on the dresses. Apparently, Nivea told me, brides are not allowed touch anything, including the dresses, pinching undergarments, or the baffling things that make the dress stand out. Nivea and I became close friends as she entered my dressing room, hooking, snapping, and fluffing faster than I could remind her that I wasn't a bride. "Deb," I gasped, as she finished zipping the dress. She continued for the next eight dresses. Never before have I tried on so much without actually touching anything.

The next day, my girls and I gathered again to rehash the battle stories of this year's Black Friday. I related my tale of the dress hunt to the group, including two of my engaged friends who had actually received the "bride" treatment. By the end, they were laughing as I explained the flurry over the spot on one of the elbow length gloves. I concluded, exclaiming in frustration over the size confusion as they expected me to be able to handle number so early in the morning. Nodding, my engaged friends sympathized, but reminded me, "You shouldn't have to worry for long time — bridesmaids dresses size normally." Ashley Johnson is an English major from Florence, Ala.