You would think that when you are middle-aged you could go to the mall without being chased.

I was walking at a brisk clip down the center of the mall, when a young man began strolling alongside me. He introduced himself as Antonio.

Antonio had smooth brown skin, jet black hair and dark eyes. I think he was the July cover of Men's Health.

I was flattered. And then I caught a glimpse of a sign just over Antonio's shoulder. It said, "Better than Botox."

Antonio was holding a tube of something in his hand and not looking into my eyes, but around them.

"If you could just give me a moment," Antonio purred.

"They were gifts," I snap.

"But I can help you," he cajoled.

"They were gifts from my children and I like them," I said.

Antonio gave me one last look of pity and turned away.

Ten paces later, another young man approached and politely offered to fix my hair.

It was one of those days when I apparently had Fixer Upper stamped on my head.

This fellow was tall, lanky and had the tips of his hair highlighted orange. He was waving a flat iron used for straightening hair, bending iron and searing steak. He wanted to straighten my bangs and smooth some waves in my hair.

"I appreciate the offer, but this is my hair. It's frizzy, curly, wavy and no matter what I do I always look like I just rolled out of bed. It took a long time, but I've learned to live with it and I think if you work at it, you can, too.

He looked dejected like he might cry. I offered to buy him a soft pretzel, but he shuffled back to his kiosk and slumped into his chair.

I took three more steps when Raul asked if he could weave some 18-inch extenders in my hair. "You'd like the look," he whispered.

"The only middle aged people who wear extenders are on 'Dancing With the Stars,'" I said. "My invitation was lost in the mail."

I ventured a few feet farther and a guy named Adam asked for my hand so he could buff my nails. For a small fortune I could soften my cuticles, relax my hands and have naturally smooth nails that reflect the sheen of track lighting.

I no sooner got my hand back from Adam when Will from Verizon wanted to switch me over from Sprint, interest me in a few apps, or at the very least persuade me to buy a jeweled case so my cell phone wouldn't look so last year.

Clutching my plain cell phone in my hand — the one with the torn cuticles and ragged fingernails — I took four more steps and ran into Tom who thought I needed a college sweatshirt with a hood. (Probably so I could pull the hood over the wrinkles on my face.)

Two steps later, a young man named Trevor approached. I was prepared to snap his head off when he asked if I'd be interested in a lighted painting of the ocean which features digital animation allowing the viewer to sit for hours watching the waves gently lap the shore.

I'll never forget Trevor. He is the only person at the mall who accepts me as I am.