Black Friday and the Christmas shopping season in general serve to underscore one of the most fundamental laws of the universe: husbands don’t enjoy shopping with their wives. Or with anyone else, or by themselves, or under any circumstances. Shopping, however, is a fact of life. Like death and taxes, it’s unavoidable, but less fun. In a recent mini-poll, conducted inside my head, men vigorously affirmed they would prefer an IRS audit, conducted by the Grim Reaper, rather than shop. Men would choose to stay at home in a stupor in front of the TV, rather than go shopping with the love of their lives. Unless they were shopping for electronic toys.
Actually, my wife and I shop together better than most couples. More often than not, we go our own ways at the mall, and meet from time to time. So, we’ll agree to meet in maybe two hours. After fifteen minutes, I’m ready to leave, so I’ll amuse myself by walking around the mall, pretending I’m an Indy 500 car heading for the checkered flag, or getting a coffee and playing with my smart phone for a while. I have no idea what I did before smart phones were invented.
When I notice that my beard has grown, I text my wife to see if she’s finished. Usually she’s still looking in the first store, probably at the first rack of clothes. We’re in this for the long haul, so I rev up and pretend I’m a Star Wars x-wing fighter lobbing the fatal shot down a trash can.
Over the years, I’ve noticed an interesting phenomenon. The longer I’m left alone at the mall, the more memory I lose. If we’re there longer than the first critical time juncture (which I call TC1), I forget where I parked the car. If it’s sufficiently past TC1, I forget which mall entrance we parked near. We’ll have a lovely walk around the parking lot searching for my car.
If we pass the second critical time juncture (TC2), I forget which mall we’re at. In that case, I can’t even find the exits. “Excuse me, ma’am, can you show me where the Sears entrance is?” “This mall doesn’t have a Sears. Did you lose your mommy?”
If we pass the third and most serious critical time juncture (TC3), I forget who I am. During a recent extended shopping safari, I ended up thinking I was Gene Kelly. Mall security found me in the parking lot, singing and dancing in the rain. And I didn’t even have an umbrella.
I’m sure many husbands can relate to this. So I have a great solution to propose. But first, an interlude from Jimi:
Wah wah, wah wah, wocka wow wow!
Wah wah, wah wah, wocka wow wow!
Wah wah wocka, wah wah wocka!
Ah, sometimes you just need a little Jimi.
Anyway, I propose that every mall have an Abandoned Husband Center. Many malls have special areas for kids; why not husbands? It could be stocked with cool guy stuff, like Indy 500 cars and x-wing fighters. Wives could drop off their men, and pick them up when they’re finished shopping in a few weeks.
Yes, I think that could really work. They’d just have to make sure every Abandoned Husband Center had plenty of umbrellas and lampposts.