Shopping With My Wife
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[0 Comment]My legs are rubber, knees about to buckle, calves cramping. In my delirium I grope for a resting place but find nothing. I can't feel my toes. I see mirages—chairs, benches—they flicker invitingly, only to vanish as I approach. I teeter on the verge of fainting.
Suddenly a voice rings out from the blinding light: "Oh, stop acting like a baby! We've only been shopping for an hour."
It's a familiar voice, a cruel voice—my wife, whose endurance far exceeds mine on such days. For her the "Accessories" section at Nordstrom is paradise. For me it's somewhere between the Sahara desert and Dante's Seventh Circle of Hell.
Okay, maybe I'm exaggerating. Truthfully, I don't mind shopping done the right way. My way—with the speed and efficiency of a military operation. Alas, I may never set the agenda when my wife and I hit the mall, but I find daydreaming cathartic. So please excuse me while I switch to fantasy mode. Click.
Shopping à; la Drew
First, the shopping trip would have a clear objective. If you go to the mall before determining what you need, something odd happens. Suddenly you find out that you "need" all sorts of things, even stuff you didn't know existed! One hour of mall trudging rubberizes your legs. Two, and your torso slouches. At the three-hour mark, fatigue flashes up your spine and seizes your brain. Suddenly the line between needs and wants blurs. You begin to ponder strange questions: How did I ever sleep without a bed that realigns my body's energy with the earth's magnetic field? How will I summon rodents without this rodent whistle?
If it were up to me, we wouldn't stick around long enough for this to happen. We'd hit the ground running. Secure the items. March them to the counter. Dispatch the plastic. Vacate the premises and make it home in time for the ball game. The perfect shopping trip!
Click. Back to reality. Such trips are a fading memory from my bachelor days. The real scene plays something like this:
Walking. Looking at clothes. Looking at clothes. More walking. Arguing. Silence. Apologizing. More arguing. Trying on clothes. Leaving store. Coming back to store. Putting clothes on hold. Walking. Weeping (me). Gnashing teeth (mine). More walking.
Well, you get the picture. Shopping causes consternation in my marriage. This took me by surprise. Just two years ago we were giddy and engaged, not even a hint of conflict on the horizon. We both liked cuddling, kissing, and a guy named Drew. Then we got married and started shopping together.
But recently I discovered that something else was causing problems in our marriage, something much worse than shopping—my selfishness. The descriptions above make my wife look like the bad guy. Some serious qualifiers are due.
For starters, though my wife likes to shop, she rarely buys anything. It's one of those mysteries, like Bigfoot or the Bermuda Triangle. But the point is I'm lucky. I've witnessed many full-grown men weep over their wives' spending habits. When my wife actually purchases something, it's usually after a good deal of prodding from me.
Originally published in: Marriage Partnership, 2006, Summer, Page 28
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