Cantankerously Yours
Men I’ve met in Women’s Shoe Departments
By Wendell Abern
Dear Fellow Schleppers,
I don’t care if this sounds mysoginistic, pig-headed or arrogant: women do not know how to shop.
Men shop in a straight line. If we need a shirt, we go to a store, march over to the men’s department, look through shirts, find one or two in the colors we want, pay and leave.
Women shop by zigzagging. If a woman needs a blouse, she serpentines an obstacle course that requires at least 30 minutes in fashion jewelry, 20 minutes in perfumes and an undisclosed amount of time in small kitchen appliances.
Long ago, I solved the problem of how to go shopping with my wife. I take along something to read. First place we go to is the women’s shoe department, where I select a chair. Then we split up. I spend about eight minutes shopping, and come back to the chair, where I read until she finishes zigzagging.
On my first venture, I discover there are other men who have already discovered this idea. I sit down in the agreed-upon chair, open the sports page (which I had deliberately left unread until then), and notice the guy sitting across from me. Seventyish. Huge shock of white hair. Rheumy eyes. Thick paperback book. Without even asking, he knows why I’m there.
“What’s your wife gettin’?” he asks.
“A dress.”
“Two hours,” he says. “With a dress, you gotta bring more ‘n the sports page to read.”
“Nah. I know my wife. Half-hour at the most.”
“You got grandchildren?”
“Yeah. Why?”
“To get to dresses, your wife’s gotta go through children’s clothes. That’s 45 minutes, minimum. Tack on another fifteen for toys and games, then an hour for the dress. Total, two hours. If you’re lucky.”
He was wrong. It took her three hours.
The next time, my wife needs a new summer outfit, so I bring the entire newspaper. I just start to read when a fiftysomething guy sets down a thermos and a laptop on the chair between us.
“You here for the sale?” he asks.
“Yeah.”
“Us too. We come every month for their biggest sale of the year.”
“You bring your laptop every month?.”
“Nah. Just for the killers. Today is a killer.”
“What’s a killer?”
“A killer is when she needs a gift for someone, doesn’t know what to get, and comes to the store looking for ideas. Killer. Good for at least four hours.”
“I’ll remember that.”
About five minutes later a slender, attractive woman comes over
and deposits two bags on the chair next to him, and leaves.
Laptop consults his watch. “Forty-five minutes, first drop-off. It’s
gonna be a six-hour day.”
Fortunately, my wife finds her summer outfit in less than two hours. My new friend asks me if we’ll be there for next month’s biggest sale of the year, and I tell him I hope not.
However, we do go to another store a week later. My wife needs a gift for someone, but isn’t sure what to get. A bona fide killer. Armed with the information from Laptop, I pack a thermos and an overnight bag. My wife does not consider this funny. I settle on a paperback thriller.
We arrive at the store, I select a chair in the shoe department and we split up. I go buy two pairs of shorts and two shirts and am back in my chair in twelve minutes.
I open my thriller and start to read when I spy a young man saying good-bye to his young wife with a kiss. She leaves and he settles into a chair and opens up the sports page he has brought with him and nods at me.
“She’s shopping, you’re waiting, right?” I ask
“You got it.”
“What’s she getting?”
“A dress.”
With confidence, I announce, “Two hours. With a dress, you gotta bring more ‘n the sports page.”
“Nah,” he says. “I know my wife. Half-hour at the most.”
“You got children?”
“Yeah. Why?”
“Just curious,” I say, sparing him the news about children’s clothes
and toys and games and go back to my thriller.
His wife shows up two hours later. The young man looks at me,
shakes his head in awe, winks and leaves.
Two hours later, when my wife finally shows up, I think to myself,
If I had started doing this forty years ago, I could have read 50 other
books by this time.
Cantankerously Yours,
Wendell Abern
Wendell Abern can be reached at dendyabern@comcast.net.