On Shopping

            Thanksgiving will soon be a warm memory giving way to the frenzy of Black Friday, the official start of the Christmas shopping season. But not for me.

            I hate shopping.  I’m the kind of guy who goes into a store, finds what he wants and buys it, all in the least amount of time. Not my wife. For her, shopping is an adventure, an avocation, a pleasure-filled investigation of all the possibilities a well-stocked store has to offer. Time is irrelevant. Inspect, touch, compare, check the price, check the tag, move on, return for a second look. That and more goes into my wife’s shopping ritual. 

            If shopping were a religion, my wife would be its High Priestess. There are commandments to be obeyed, like never take the bottle of milk in front, only the one behind it. Buy a product made in China only as a last resort and an absolute necessity. Keep the little bag of coupons with you at all times…you never know. Don’t pass by the book section without checking to see what’s new. Stop and pay your respects to the clearance rack. Drive that extra ten miles for a nickel off a gallon. Never pay full price if you can help it. And don’t ever come home with only the things on your shopping list.

            My wife is well aware of my aversion to shopping. She never asks me to follow along.  “Stay in the car. I’ll be right out.” Uh, huh.  Or, “Sit over there and wait for me.” That’s when I get to meet other husbands on the same bench who have never quite understood why patience has evolved into a uniquely male virtue. 

            On occasion, though, I get the benefit of my wife’s shopping idiosyncrasies.   Take greeting cards, for instance.  Sometime I think my wife single-handedly keeps greeting card companies in business.  Every birthday, every anniversary, every special occasion.  Kids, grandkids, relatives near and far, good friends, they all get a card.  Don’t even mention Christmas.  And not just any card. The selection must be the result of an exhaustive search for just the right sentiment.  But I must say that my wife saves the best ones for me.

            On my last birthday, my wife’s card said, “Every time I look at you, I know I chose the best man in the entire world to spend all the days of my life with.” Now, that wasn’t just any card. I don’t know how long it took her to find this one, but the words hit me; they were perfect (even if this stodgy grammarian noticed the preposition at the end of the sentence). Me. The guy who forgets to do the dishes.  The guy who picks on her for buying too many vitamin pills. The guy who yells at her for tailgating. The guy who is not as affectionate as he should be.  

            Why me?  Lucky me.