It's almost Tuesday again. It's been a busy week at our house. It was not all work, however. Friday afternoon (I left work early), I took my graduation money and went shopping. The problem was that I took my husband with me. Don't misunderstand, my husband is wonderful. He will do anything for me, including suffering through a shopping trip. And he did.
How do I know he is suffering? About 15 minutes into the first store, his eyes begin to droop. He has already conquered the men's department, the automotive department (if they have one), and is now in my section "helping me" pick out clothes. I see the dissappointment in his face when he pulls something off a rack and I shake my head no. It doesn't matter to him that it is either too big, too small, or looks like it came out of my grandmother's closet. He is encouraged when I head for the dressing room with an arm full of clothes. He sets in the chair outside the room anticipating the trip is coming to an end. On the other side of the dressing room door, however, I am morified at the site of cellulite, pants too small or too big, shirts that feel like a straight jacket, and nothing that even comes close to fitting my body . Where are the women they designed these clothes for? There must be a lifesized Barbie prototype.
I leave the dressing room and hand the lady behind the counter all the clothes I tried on, and turn to find my husband almost in tears. Are you sure none of those fit? Not even one? I try to pretend I don't notice his state of desperation and quickly go back one last time to my department. This time he does not follow me. After round two is complete, I go to the front of the store to find him sitting in a wheel chair, a shopping cart, a wall extension, or just leaning against the wall.
I pay for the one thing I did find, and go to rejoin him. He asks in a faint voice, "Where to next?" Home is the only option, considering his condition. By the time we arrive home, his condition has improved and he is ready to conquer the remote control, the hammer and nails, or putting golf balls in the yard.
To the many husbands out there who endure shopping trips, I just have to laugh.