In The Name of Mall of America. Amen.

On our last day in Minnesota we acquiesced to the pleas of our preteen offspring and took them to The Holy Land.

Armed with their copy of Guinness's World's Records, they spouted off trivia to me in their efforts to seal the deal. Mall of America is the world's eighth largest mall. At any given time there are more people inside that mall than live in our town. How, how does a young shopper absorb all that without passing out, gift card squeezed in a sweaty, lifeless hand? They wanted to see the theme park inside a mall and test its existence, the thought of ferris wheels and roller coasters in the very place that houses Claire's almost too much to bear. The closest our small town mall will ever come to an amusement park is the after-Christmas sale at Penney's. There was also an aquarium with sharks, and all the shopping a young girl could stand.

We spent our last day there, and I was really amazed at how much fun we had. First, I was expecting something like the big fancy malls two hours south of us. These places are filled with perfect women with their Chanel eye wear perched atop ironed hair, tiny little Prada tees and painted on Seven jeans. They teeter about shops like Versace and St. Johns in their Jimmy Choos. And these are the mommys. You can spot them, because underneath their Marc Jacobs bags they're clutching a Juicy diaper bag and if you wait a moment, you might even spot actual progeny. I don't like the way those kinds of places make me feel. I might leave my home feeling cute as a button in an Eddie Bauer skirt and t-shirt, but come back feeling rumpled and sort of like I'm a little blurry around the edges.

But Mall of America? In America's Heartland? The great Midwest where good women have bobbed hair, capris pants and maybe a cute camp shirt? Where the glamorous moms have added hoop earrings and a camisole underneath said campshirt? Where there is no litter to be found, clean children, and evidence of Boy Scouts everywhere? We had a ball.

The kids did the rides for a few hours, pet the sharks, and ate lunch. My girls went into stores that featured lots of prettily displayed cheap plastic costume jewelry and nearly went into apoplectic fits when they discovered that they could buy many trinkets for mere dollars. They spent gift cards they've been hoarding for the past year, they met wild-eyed at the Abercrombie teen store and emerged with the coveted hoodie sweatshirt bearing the store's logo.

We took Jack into Nordstrom to buy a pair of sturdy baby shoes, the kind that look semi-orthopedic. Because he's still not walking, but he's making progress, and according to his doctor he needs something to help stabilize his feet. We entered the Nordstrom children's shoes department and it was a zoo. Literally. There was an enormous floor to ceiling aquarium and mothers and children everywhere. We had to take a number, it was so busy. Bob wins the Good Husband of the Year Award, because when I discovered we'd be waiting for the better part of an hour, he didn't even bat an eyelash when I said I should probably just scoot on over to lingerie while he waited, fitted Jack for shoes, and paid for them. It would be like feeding two birds with one seed, you know?

*cue sexy music*

And that's when I had my date at Nordstrom.

I entered the lingerie section, knowing I needed to get a new bra. I'm not nursing anymore, and every bra I own is a different size, none of them fitting right. I needed to get fitted and get something well-made. I was approached by a tiny woman with really high cheekbones. She looked Japanese-American, but when she opened her mouth, she sounded vaguely European. Before I could finish telling her that I needed a really good bra and that I had never really been measured for size, she had whisked me into a fitting room.

With a snap of her measuring tape, she stared at me. Oh. I took off my shirt. She didn't move, and I reluctantly unhooked my bra, something I am loathe to do unless in the inky black of night. She was all efficient moves, her tape around my ribs, her quick gesture to my old bra on the floor.

"What size were you wearing?"

"Uh, this one is a 36 B. But it's one of mine that really doesn't fit well."

With a tsking sound of disdain she turned and left the dressing room. Over her shoulder she called, "You are a 32 C, maybe D in some of our lines, I will get some bras for you now."

She quickly returned, lacy goods in hand, and instructed me to place my arms out in front of me. She placed the bra on me, snapped the hook closures, and reached a tiny hand around and grabbed my boob. She lifted the remnants of my mammaries and adjusted them into the cup. I couldn't move. I stood there as she squeezed, adjusted and maneuvered my breasts into very expensive bras by La Perla and Chantelle. When she had finished, she patted the outsides of my breasts and took a step back. "There. Much better, you think?"

I felt like I should say something to acknowledge the action my boobs had just received. Maybe, What are you doing later tonight? But instead, I looked in the mirror and gasped. It was like a lift without scarring. Really. If you have nursed more than one child and you are reading this? Go. Run. Get thee to a fitter and put your girls in $200 lace cups. Because you will feel like a girl again, I promise.

We all had a marvelous time at the Midwest's largest tribute to retail. I'm still glowing from my bras, with an urge to make a hot dish, and the girls have pointed their beds toward Mecca Minneapolis and await next summer's pilgrimage with great happiness.