Shopping As Punishment: The Male Perspective
(Kahn Publications—1995)
It’s happening again. I vowed before that it wouldn’t be this way, but here it is. My back is against the wall, my dignity in shreds. I grope for a way out—any way. But there is no escape. I must resist the cry of my very genes and do that which I hate.
I must go shopping.
Of course, it’s the last minute, like every year. And every year, I tuck the lesson under my belt: “Next year I’m giving myself a month—no, TWO months. No more last minute! This is totally, completely unnecessary!”
“You only have one person to shop for—your wife!” the voice in my head continues. “She handles everything else: Christmas, kids’ birthdays, YOUR birthday. You have one thing, and you can’t even handle that, you pathetic moron.”
I shake myself. I have to be sober, my wits razor-sharp. I circle the mall in my vehicle, staking out my target, unbeknownst to the carefree revelers inside.
How the heck do you get into these malls, anyway? They’re set up so you have to enter through one of those huge department stores, where they can hook you with all the merchandise as you pass through. Clever.
I select my point of entry, calculating minimum probable execution time (MPET). After parking just over the horizon from the mall itself, I begin the trek toward the entrance. There, I enter a world of amoral zombies, all ambling between carnival-like attractions.
The mall fairways are dominated by roving bands of teenage thugs in oversized clothing, marching five abreast. Their female counterparts mill about in their own groups, popping their gum and batting their encrusted eyelashes.
But the real bullies of the mall are the housewives. I once believed the myths about powerless females. Forget it. Here, they move with the confidence of true pros, at ease in their own world. As I stumble through the Young Miss section at Penney’s, two matrons shoulder-block me on their way to a clearance rack. By the time I emerge from the tangle of blouses and hangers, they’re gone.
Now I’m standing in the fairway, next to a huge fountain of inscrutable design. The roar of water blends with the babble of voices around, above and below me. A large mirrored ball is suspended from the ceiling, throwing shards of light around the speckled tile floor. The world is spinning, echoing with laughter and organ music in a nauseating mélange.
I feel transported.
My mission, once so clear, is a distant memory. I summon the remnants of my fading consciousness. “Must. . .buy. . .gift. . .for. . .wife. . .” I float disembodied past windows of merchandise, hoping for a sign.
Perfume? Did that last year.
Jewelry? The salesman is poised at the very edge of his store, like a barracuda in cashmere. I don’t think so.
There are simply too many choices. If you just had, say, two items, it would be easy. This—or that? But here the mind reaches circuit overload. That’s why mall shoppers always appear lobotomized.
Maybe I should try something else. I could cruise some of those antique stores across the tracks. Yeah, that’s it.
I buy a frozen yogurt on the way out to console myself. In the parking lot, as I look back, a shiver runs up my spine.
I can’t believe I made it out.
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