I'm cool.

Yesterday we got a catalog called Free People. I’ve seen clothes with that label before--kind of a fusion of Sundance chic, bohemian, and Himalayan socio-eco-consciousness. And here's the collection all in one place. I almost like them but can’t quite get beyond my impression that the garments appear designed to fit something other than a human form. Even on the models the bodices cinch at mid-boob, or sport sleeves that end awkwardly at the elbow joint. One striking image features a model posed pigeon-toed in front of a temple. She seems to be wearing hip-waders, a disco-ball dress, and oven mitts.

I feel certain the prices are high, but I can’t tell you for sure as the text is printed in a tiny wispy white font against mottled backdrops of anything from busy tapestries to rocky deserts. There should be a disclaimer printed largely somewhere on the catalog: If you can’t read this then get the heck out of here you old fart. This stuff’s not for you!

I guess the warning should be self-evident. Though not spelled out explicitly, that’s the clear message I get when I walk into any number of contemporary Annapolis Mall boutiques. If you cannot make informed clothing choices by the light of three 20 watt bulbs, go away. If angst-ridden background music blasting at 100 decibels scrambles your ability to remember where you are, go away. In general I handle this confusion by going away. But as long as you have no particular agenda--you are, for example, merely accompanying your 17 year old--modern marketing can be an interesting thing to observe.

There’s a new wing in the Annapolis Mall full of all sorts of new design schemes. The UnderArmour Store sucks you down a cavernous gray tunnel toward steps glowing with cobalt blue floor lights. Inside you’re greeted by the hulking form of a gargantuan athlete about to drop dead of a ruptured vessel. You hope he won’t topple on you as you look around for the rollercoaster you’re almost certainly supposed to get on next. But there isn’t one. Just athletic clothing.

Further down the mall corridor you come across a brick facade suggesting a London gentlemen’s club in the time of Jack the Ripper. Tiny windows, wrought iron grillwork...and a barely discernible brass plaque from which you might conclude that the name of the store is Ruehl. A saleslady stands just inside. You expect her to lead you discreetly to the private card game in the back room, but instead she points through the barely lit gloom to several strangely subdivided areas containing $200 handbags, and tissue-thin camisoles at $90 a pop. You say “thank you,” and back out, fearful that you might lose your husband who almost certainly will not remember how to find his way back to the mall entrance next to the McCormick & Schmick Seafood Restaurant--the one with the the giant inflatable tick on the roof. Well, it’s supposed to be a crab, but it looks like an engorged tick.

I may have given the impression that I really don’t like the mall so much. And you’re right, I really don’t. Not so much. But it is interesting in its own way. And I did succeed in tracking down a couple of acceptable pairs of blue jeans--as had been my goal. I did not try on the jeans at the Lucky Brand store, despite the saleslady’s assurances that they were expertly made by a factory right in the United States. At $120 a pair I would want them to be made at the lunar station, with moon-metal rivets, and shipped back to Earth via shuttle. No, I bought some at J. Crew who--several years ago--I would have lumped with the trend to try to scrape me off as yesterday’s news. But it seems they’ve been trumped by the next generation of über-hot shops. The jeans were $73. On sale from $98. It’s still a little hard to swallow.