Panic...at Victoria's Secret?

Last year, I was in a funk. A group of girlfriends with whom I'd been friends for over six years were together on a girls' weekend in Florida. But I was not there. I had moved to Washington State a few months before, and was too far to be part of their conversations, their daily Starbucks runs, their plans. The logical part of me understood why I was here and they were there; the emotional side of me was bummed. The pictures posted on social media didn't help, and my "Have so much fun!" plus smiley and thumbs up emojis masked the jealousy I felt.

Tired of me dragging my feet around and eager to see me feel better, my husband suggested I go to the mall. "Why don't you freshen up your lingerie drawer? Get some fun new stuff?"

Always happy to leave our three kids in his care and get some alone time, I said yes. I wasn't super into his plan, but I understood that getting out of the house might help me get out of my funk.

I drove to the Alderwood Mall, a fine but not-so-extraordinary mall twentyish miles north of Seattle and parked near Nordstrom. I strolled the displays there, tried on a bunch of things, and bought a handful. Then I headed to Victoria's Secret. I grabbed one of their mesh bags and threw some stuff in that I planned to try on. I was holding up some tiny pair of underwear when I looked out past Victoria's Secret's doors into the wide mall. Something caught my eye.

I saw people running.

Lots of people were running. Some were screaming. I could feel their panic. A few people ran into Victoria's Secret, and I heard the words you never want to hear: "He's got a gun!"

I quickly dropped behind the heavy display counters, cursing myself at the stupidity of being here and not home. Of "needing" overpriced lace in cute patterns and bright colors on this day. My heart beat out of my chest, and I could feel the adrenaline shoot through my body. Might I get hurt--killed?--in a lingerie shop?

The saleswoman who had just before handed me the mesh shopping bag crawled over to me.

"There's a back door! Come on!"

I followed this lady. We all did. We pressed ourselves into a tiny hallway. People pushed and shoved, some cried, almost wailing, unable to contain their fear inside. Mothers clutched children as hard as they could. Other mothers pushed their children, confused and clearly upset, in front of them, as if wishing them to get out first. Before them. I've never been in any sort of panicked crowd, and I do not want ever to be in one again.

We got out to the parking lot. To the crisp fall day. The sun seemed to promise safety. My hands were shaking--I could barely use my phone as I could not control my fingers. The only other time I have felt this sort of adrenaline was after delivering each of my three kids.

I thought I knew what relief was before this moment, but I rdidn't. I was so glad to be out. I was dazed from the previous five minutes--if the whole ordeal even lasted five minutes. I really have no idea. I texted my husband: "There is a shooter at the mall. I'm outside and I'm safe."

Because I was new to the area and had been to that mall only a few times before, and because I was completely shaken up, I walked around the entire mall looking for my car. Police swarmed the place, sirens blaring. I saw armed men moving quickly inside and was glad I was not there any more. It turns out that it wasn't a shooter. There was no gun. There was a stabbing in the food court; the police believed it to be an isolated incident where Person A went in looking for Person B and then stabbed him when he found him.

As I drove home that day, I said a thank you prayer. For keeping me safe, for keeping others safe, and for all of that craziness to have happened that day, and not two days before, when I had all three of my kids at the very same mall. I'm glad that they did not have to feel panicked and afraid like the other children I saw. And I continue to whisper prayers of please protect them because I know that stuff like that happens way too often, and I won't always be there.

And that scares me.