No-man’s land revisited
Things often come full circle. Things like NASCAR races, circles that are full, fortune cookies and the plight of those lost in their own sense of glee, which was something I once read in a fortune cookie. See what I mean by fortune cookies coming full circle?
For me, it was when my mother would drag my brother and me to a department store for clothes shopping for us and where the sense of boredom was so heavy, it made me want to call Amnesty International … even though I didn’t know what that was at the time … or even right now.
I thought I would never experience anything like it again when I broke free into adulthood where I go where I please, eat only cheese for dinner and only go out into the stores to purchase things to survive the next day…and to get more cheese.
That was until my wife started to take me shopping with her.
Our trips to the mall brought back all of those childhood horrors while creating new and terrifying ones for adulthood. And with post-Christmas gift-card season in full swing, I now dread my once-beloved free time.
The first of her go-to shops is the Bath and Beyond Body something store where all I see are lotions, candles and sprays — oh my!
After five minutes, I feel like I’m in the endless circle of male purgatory as I’m assaulted by every girly smell imaginable, I’m insulted by the insanely marked up prices for cheaply made chemical compounds and my sense of hearing is assaulted and insulted by the newest pop-sensation song hits over the store’s speakers.
It’s bad enough being a man trapped in such a place, but my wife doubles down by asking me to hold her wristlet, which is like a wallet, but with a strap that goes around your wrist so grabbing money for impulse items can be done with greater ease.
And, of course, she wants me to share in the experience by shopping there for myself.
“They have scents here for guys, too,” she says, referring to the three baskets on a rack with scents for men with names like “Dark Horizons,” “Country Weekend” and “Chemical Castration.”
“No they don’t,” I say, full-well knowing that if it doesn’t start with Old and end in Spice, I ain’t interested.
Her other go-to store is a clothing and accessories retailer — Old Gap Navy, I think it’s called.
Anyway, I enter the story with my wife dragging me by my one hand and the wristlet holding my other hand down: The married man’s chains of oppression.
In that store, I try to pass time by looking at all the headless mannequins and wonder if they’re manufactured without the heads or is there a head-lopping-off process, and the guy charged with the responsibility leaves work more depressed than when he arrived.
I’m so bored at other points, I start to walk around in a circle like some dogs do before they lie down, and when I almost hit the floor, that’s when the manager comes over, and we have words.
His words normally begin with, “Sir, you can’t…” and my words usually end with, “…and I don’t sometimes pay taxes to be treated like this!”
To avoid that from happening yet again for the fourth time in one day, my wife takes it upon herself to hold clothing up to me and ask questions about it.
“Do you like the red one or the black one?” she asks.
“I don’t care,” I say.
“C’mon! Help me! I can’t decide!”
“The black one then.”
“Really?” she says, looking at it like she received a personalized Christmas card from Charles Manson. “No. I’m going to get the red.”
If that’s not bad enough, she then ups the ante by asking my thoughts of clothes/color combinations, and that’s when I really feel the blood starting to pool behind my eyes.
“Should I get the gray or black socks with these striped leggings?” she asks me as if I’m her long-time fashion consultant.
My big outfitting decision in the morning is if I’m in a Batman mood or an Iron Man mood. I’m not the guy to ask about leggings, colors, seasons, body wash, feelings or words in general. I’m the guy to ask about fortune-cookie philosophy.
See what I mean about fortune cookies coming full circle?