PLEASE DON'T MAKE ME SIT IN "THE CHAIR"!!!
Friday is my 27th wedding anniversary. 27 years…. In a row.
What kind of gift do you get the woman you have been married to for 27 years?
I’d run out of ideas. So I did what any married man would do. I’ve already told my wife I’m giving her a card that entitled her to one free outfit.
She loved it and followed with, “This is wonderful, the Nordstrom Half Yearly Sale started this week, why don’t we go together on Friday and you can help me pick it out?”
I haven’t been inside a shopping mall in two years.
I don’t want to be caught with her out in the open in a shopping mall. I’ll get sucked in. She’ll see something in a window of a woman’s shop and then I’ll get…”THE CHAIR.”
Every woman’s store has one. That lone chair that husbands sit in and wait, and wait, and wait, and wait, and wait, and wait, and wait, …………………
We’re supposed to sit there and not touch anything while we give “positive” running commentary on the impromptu fashion show we’re about to get.
Why do you women think that if you try on an outfit that you are going to get an honest answer from us when you come out to show us?
Do we look like someone who should be giving fashion advice?
You have to know we just want to get the hell out of there.
After I’ve been sitting there for an hour and see 18 trillion dresses she has to know that she could come out with nothing on but a Hefty bag and Cheetohs taped to her forehead and I’m going to love it!!!
That’s why I haven’t been back to the mall since my last time in the “chair.”
I fell asleep.
The kind of sleep that follows with snoring and inevitably, drooling.
When my wife came out to show me “the dress” she finally decided she was going to buy she startled me. I woke up, yelled “Fumble!” banged my head against the wall behind me, knocked the painting off the wall and sat there with a foot long line of drool going from the corner of my mouth to my left breast pocket. I also had a cowlick of hair sticking up from my head hitting the wall.
God I wish I was making that up.
I looked like a deranged version of Alfalfa.
Yes…I’m a keeper.
Normally my wife just shakes her head and walks away pretending she doesn’t know me.
Not this time.
She had this look on her face like I was a puppy she wanted to drop off at the pound. Like she wanted to keep me but I was getting to be way too much work and she couldn’t potty train me.
She mumbled something about my mother and went back into her changing cell. Yes “cell” because I feel like I’m a prison guard sitting out there.
I’m sitting there with a huge wet spot on my shirt, messed up hair, and a knot on my head the size of a golf ball. So I try to look…cool.
My wife comes out and now I’m getting the silent treatment, which seems like a blessing at this point compared to the alternative.
We get to the checkout counter and the 19-year-old tattooed waif behind the counter is nonverbally communicating with my wife. I could sense it. She had this look like, “Oh my Gawd, I can’t believe you’re with this.”
I’m trying to look nonchalant at this point. Like I meant to have a wet spot on my shirt over my left breast and that my hair was a statement.
While my wife is spending an eternity with the punk version of Karen Carpenter trying to pay for her stuff I start playing with these odd-looking gel balls they have in a “50% off” sale bin next to the counter.
I bounce em, squeeze um, juggle them, and then I think to myself. “Why would they be selling kids stuff in a woman’s clothing store?”
It was at this moment I caught the pained look of horror in my wife’s face a fraction before she smacked me in the back of the head.
“Idiot! Put down the “Nearly Me’s” and go wait outside.
What the hell was a “Nearly Me?”
Do you know what it’s like to have to stand outside a woman’s clothing store in a crowded mall with messed up hair and a wet spot on your shirt over your left breast?
Let me put it this way, at that moment all I was thinking was, “how can I fake my death?”
My wife comes out and pretends she doesn’t know me. So I now look like some kind of perverted stalker following a woman through the mall.
“Sorry babe, honey, sorry. Want me to carry those for you? You wanna stop at the Starbucks and get a decaf frappo latto macho macho man Vente for $49. Huh? What about a Cinnabon? Anything you want babe. Really, I’m sorry. I said I was sorry. Are we good? We’re good right? I just want to go home. Can we please go home? I’m safe at home.”
It’s been two years and now I have to go back.
Hopefully no one will recognize me.
I don’t wanna go to the mall.
Can’t we just spend the day at Bed Bath and Beyond?