I kept my voice level enough so my words would register, but soft enough so as not to interfere with any REM factor. “Sak’s is having a little sale. I just want to pick up a few things.”
To my surprise, this seemed to get his attention.
He opened his eyes, rolled over, and said the four worst words a woman can hear: “I’ll come with you.”
“That’s not necessary,” I said. “You sleep. Catch up on your rest. It’ll be a treat for you.”
“But I want to be with you,” he said.
While riding the escalator to the men’s department, I watched hordes of women in the handbag section reduced to their most basic survival instincts. A single arm would be draped with three or four bags. The Marc Jacobs disappeared first. The Chloe bags next. The Mui Muis never stood a chance. I wanted to cry.
I spent the morning fighting against men; wrangling over ties, wrestling over shirts, scrambling through a selection of leather wallets, trying to find one big enough to hold Randy’s credit cards, but flat enough so he wouldn’t walk around looking like he had a big growth on his butt.
Meanwhile, Randy tried on pants and jackets, sweaters and blazers, sneaked me into the men’s dressing room for consultations.
By the time I looked at my watch, it was 11:52. Randy had bought three ties and two shirts. And I had eight minutes left of bargain hunting for me.
“I think we’ve done enough shopping,” I said.
I couldn’t believe the words coming out of my mouth.
“Really?” Randy said. “I thought you might want to look around for something. How about a blouse? Can you use a new blouse?”
“Not today,” I said. “Thanks, anyway.”
I love the man dearly. I love being married to him. And I hope he believes me this December 26, when I tell him I’m going to the gynecologist.
Want MORE? Check out Tales of a PTA Drop-Out.
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