Shopped Into Submission

Going shopping with my wife is a little like a love hate relationship. I love hanging out with my wife away from the boys, but when I’m out shopping for clothes with her I can’t help but miss being with them pretending to be the incredible Hulk and Hulk-smashing everything in sight.

My contribution to helping her decide is so minimal I’m sure she regrets bringing me the moment she asks for my opinion and I reply “I don’t know… yes”. My only real value is that I’m outstanding at guarding her purse and/or drink while she tries clothes on. My stank-eye is superb. No one comes near me and her purse. In reality I’m sure it’s more that no one wants to deal with the guy who looks like he just can’t take living anymore. You know the guy I’m talking about. He’s the one sitting on some weird over-sized ottoman surrounded by bags with his shoulders slumped forward staring at his shoes like they’re talking to him.

I think there is a saving grace though. We men will look for other men suffering in the same situation. We have a non verbal code, we can just read each others body language. Here is one I see a lot, it’s a look we all give, It looks like quiet desperation and I’m going to decode it for you. Here it is, quiet desperation: “How did this happen? It sounded great; she came to me so sweetly and asked me if I wanted to go out. Now all I can think about is whether I would survive the drop from the second floor of the mall.” There is something special in knowing you aren’t alone. Every time I meet eyes with some other sorry bastard there is this moment of silent recognition. It’s only for a split second but it’s read “We can do this, just a few more stores. Solidarity brother.” It can only be a split second too, because if we stare any longer, thoughts that “this guy must want to fight me” start popping into our heads, we’re stupid like that.

Why do they even bring us? Our opinion on fashion is horrible, we look like miserable self-centered children on the verge of a foot stomping, brain popping, melt down. Because they love us I assume. But that’s dumb. This is a prime example of when love clouds your judgment. They must pity us when they see us sitting on the couch still in our underwear watching Saturday morning cartoons. But here’s a little secret. That’s bliss to us. No pants, no thinking, no nothing. Just slap stick humor, a bowl of fruit loops, and the day’s aspirations gone five minutes after we woke up and turned on the T.V. But somehow women think we need to be saved from this bliss by being dragged around the mall kicking and screaming. It’s for our own good!

Have a good no-pants Sunday everyone.


Late for Work (or how I wouldn’t survive a zombie apocalypse)

I woke up late this morning cursing at myself – quietly so I wouldn’t wake A – for my inevitable late arrival at work. I hopped in the tub for a quick shower, and after, while drying my hair I pulled a muscle in my neck. Yes, that’s right, apparently I needed my hair so dry that extreme force was needed. In all seriousness I really just aggravated my neck which I pulled a muscle in during an unrelated incident.

So, on to gathering my essentials for the day. Wallet, insulin pens, glucose meter, phone, security card, and a few other things I grab simply by habit.

I look at the time. I have eleven minutes until my bus comes. If I hurry, I wont be late.

I then realize I used my last bus ticket to get home from work yesterday. FRACK! I check my pockets, the computer desk, A’s wallet and then finally scrounge up enough for bus fare.

I check the time. Five minutes until the bus arrives at my stop. I can make it if I run.

I put on my coat, back pack, shoes and go over my mental check list.

  • Keys
  • Diabetes paraphernalia
  • Security card
  • Phone
  • Wallet

Got it, lets go.

Man it’s cold out this morning. I check the time. Three minutes until the bus arrives.

Time to start pumping my legs like I am being chased by a pack of rabid zombies. Not the slow kind either. The ones that run as fast as a sprinter and don’t get tired.

Run boy run!

I turn the corner and make it half way to the stop and watch as the bus zooms by. I curse at myself, and a little at the bus driver for good measure. I then realize I’d never survive a zombie apocalypse and curse at myself again.

I’d be lying if I said I’ve never done this. o_O

Now I am calmly waiting for the next bus that should arrive in fifteen minutes, making me twenty minutes late for work.

My neck hurts.