It’s time to put on my silk shorts and gloves. Cue the Rocky music. I’m going ten rounds of shopping with my wife. It is payday and it’s the first time in weeks my wallet hasn’t given off the sound of crickets when I opened it. The truth is, my wife needs clothes, she’s starting a new job this week. I’ve been spared the indignity of a long drawn out process because she does not need business attire. No, my wife is in need of scrubs. Scrubs: the next best thing to going to work in your pajamas. The added benefit is they hide a multitude of sins which includes that last double pie ala mode not withstanding.
Asking me to help her choose this simple attire has to be relatively safe. What could be the worse thing that would come out when she seeks my opinion? I can imagine myself blurting out,”Honey, is that a drawstring on your pants or is that a rip cord for a green parachute?” “No, I’m not saying they are unflattering, but did you get a bargain on those at the Tractor Supply?”
I value my life and I know the drill. Stay patient, don’t speak unless asked, don’t act embarrassed-despite the mountain of cast off clothes in your cart (buggy), and try to look masculine at all costs. I know my cart looks like I cleaned the floor of a 13 year old teenager’s bedroom but how can I look manly while holding my wife’s purse? I can just imagine a crackly voice on the store intercom making the loud announcement, “Women shoppers, don’t mind the effeminate pack mule by the changing room.”
Women shop as if every garment they try on will be scrutinized at their next high school reunion. As for me, I could care less what I look like. If it’s not wrinkled and the socks match, I’m ready to go. Despite my lengthy wait, I know my wife is still breathing because I hear her frequent sighs, groans, and outbursts. It is then when I hear her say emphatically behind the door, “Are you kidding me?” or “I look like a sausage casing in this!” That is usually my cue to make a bee line to sporting goods because she’s going to come out in a very bad mood.
Despite the fact that I still see my wife as picture-perfect, in a recent picture she described her disgust by pointing at a picture of the both of us. In the background, one of her knees, (which only she can see), appears to have a minor and imperceptible bump on it; “Look, a fat pad” she moaned. I responded, “Aren’t we just a tad bit critical? I mean, you married a fat pad but I still wear shorts!”
I am glad to report that we finally left the store with seven non clinging sets of scrubs with drawstrings pants. I wanted to tell her that they share the same feature with our Hefty trash bags; they have drawstrings too! But, I thought better than to say it, I’ll just think it. The reason is, I might share a feature with the trash bags as well; I too might spend the night out by the curb!