I really hate to shop, unless it's at a farm auction or gun show. I'm smart enough, however, to realize that offering her a present from one of these two sources would put me in husband-point hock for the duration.
So in order to accomplish the mission of finding my wife a birthday present with as little pain and agony as possible, I plan my excursion to the mall like a military exercise. Before I get a map of our local shopping enclave and study the easiest routes of infiltration and escape, I must decide on an objective, which is to say that I must make a decision on what to actually purchase.
The first thing that comes to mind is, of course, a lawn mower. This is a tricky proposition, though, because no matter how much Connie likes to mow, whatever I get her had better convey the message "I love you dearly and want to spoil you by treating you to things that are lavish and romantic." Finding a lavish and romantic lawnmower is a difficult proposition, to say the least, What I had better not convey is "Here's something that will enable you to get more done as you toil about the house." Maybe a lawn mower isn't such a good idea. Anything to do with paintball probably won't work either. I tried getting her perfume once, and even found one that I actually liked, called "Vanilla Caramel". Unfortunately, my idea of what smells good differs considerably from that of my wife. She accused me of wanting her to smell like some sort of French dessert. I couldn't understand what was wrong with that, and tried to explain that it was only because I couldn't find anything in the "ski wax" scent or "peppered bacon" fragrance. At that point she started to roll her eyes and mutter, so I decided it was best to agree to disagree, and gave up on the idea.
Lately she's been coming to bed wearing that chin-to-floor flannel gown that she inherited from her grandmother. I think it's bulletproof. You can’t even see her feet; she just glides across the floor to the bed like some sort of flannel ghost. She may just be afraid of getting pregnant again, but since that seems to happen with us by any physical contact more intimate than mental telepathy, simply dressing like a wooly mammoth might not be protection enough. Perhaps she's been dressing that way because in the winter our bedroom, if we put plastic on the windows and keep the heat on high, stays just above the temperature of glacial runoff. Personally, I don't mind a cold bedroom. I feel like we're saving money, even if I can't feel much else. It reminds me of camping, well, except you can't see the stars, and I don't usually camp with a wooly mammoth.
Anyway, it's getting warmer, so I soon might be lucky enough to get to cuddle my wife without having to call in an archaeologist to find her first. That makes me think maybe she'd like a nightie for her birthday. Nothing of the "Xena, Warrior Princess" variety, mind you. This is, after all, HER birthday present, not mine. No, I have in mind something comfortable, conservative, and easy to remove.
Okay, so the objective is lingerie. Sears has lingerie, but even I'm not that stupid. That would be like getting her a perfume from a truck pull. A guy would never do that more than once, or so I've heard. This means I'm going to have to do it the hard way. I'm going to have to go behind enemy lines, where every man fears to tread, Yes, Victoria's Secret. This is a problem. I'm usually quite self assured and unflappable in every situation. Victoria's actual secret, however, is that her store is to men what kryptonite is to Superman. It makes me feel like an eleven year old boy who accidentally walked into the girls locker room. Not only is it embarrassing just to be in there, I'm afraid someone I know will come along and see me. The best way to accomplish this mission, I decided, was to make it a hit-and-git raid. In and out in a flash, and no one gets hurt.
I parked by the Sears. I planned to enter there, just in case something went wrong at Victoria's Secret I could stop by the mowers on the way out. Far better to show up with a bad present than no present.
When I entered the store I realized that I had made a mistake. I had entered on the bottom floor of Sears, in the ladies section, instead of the hardware section, which was upstairs. Too late to turn back now. Quickly moving toward the mall entrance, I silently wondered if Sears lingerie had the same lifetime guarantee as their tools. Suddenly I realized that I was going to have to traverse the perfume department in order to make it to the mall proper. Egad! I stopped in my tracks. They must have been overstocked. They had store employees stationed every eight feet on either side of the aisle, spraying perfume samples on anything that moved. I knew I would never be able to hold my breath that long, even if I was able to avoid the frumpy women dispensing perfume like high powered water sprinklers. I only barely escaped with my life by utilizing the low crawl techniques that I learned in the Army.
Once past that obstacle, I got up and hurried towards the Victoria's secret. When I got there, I furtively glanced up and down the mall in either direction, and seeing no one that I knew, took a deep breath and ducked into the store.
The first sight that greeted me was a poster of a model in a pushup bra, three times life size. I don't know how long I stood looking at it like it was the Tower Bridge in London, when I heard a woman clear her throat behind me and say, "Can I help you?". I spun around, flustered, and stammered, "Um, I…well, my wife's…er, I mean, uh, it's her birthday, and…I uh…"
The girl gave me a grim smirk as if she had just caught me ogling her pushup bra, and said "Are you looking for a gift?" I gulped and nodded, and she asked "What size is she?"
"Who?" I said.
"Your wife!" she answered, giving me that smirk again.
"Oh! Yes! Um…." I realized at this moment that I was in big trouble. I had no idea what size my wife was, or even how size is expressed in the world of lacy-naughties. The young woman speaking to me was much taller than I was, and her waist was about as big around as my leg.
"Fatter than you." I stuttered, knowing immediately that that was the wrong thing to say. The skinny girl stifled a gasp, and didn't say anything, but didn't look very happy with me. "I mean, uh, she, well…" I didn't know what to say. "her stuff almost fits me!" I blurted.
It took a second before I realized what I had just said. I must have been glowing purple by this point. The sales lady was trying not to smile. "Okay," she said, "would you like to use our dressing room?"
This was not going well at all. "No! I didn't mean…it's just I'm not sure what sizes there are."
"Well, what kind of outfit did you have in mind?" She was taking pity on me.
"I don't know, it's her birthday." I said, looking at the carpet.
The lady turned and plucked something off the wall that could have been lint, except it was on a hangar. "How about this?" she said helpfully.
"What, the hangar?"
"No, this!" She pointed to the lint.
I squinted. It was a pair of panties. It looked like about two square inches of mosquito netting, held together with fishing twine. The tag said "$39.99" The tag was bigger than the product. The lady must think I was married to a Barbie doll.
My head was spinning. How in the HECK could they charge forty bucks for that little conglomeration of dental floss and a band-aid? I guess the electron microscope that it must take to be able to sew something that small can't come cheap.
"Uh, I don't think so," I said. If I bought it and she dropped it into a bag, I wasn't sure I'd ever be able to find it again. "It, well…doesn't leave much to the imagination."
The lady shrugged and hung the lint back on the wall. "Look around," she said "and let me know if you have any questions." She stalked off to torture someone else.
I needed an aspirin. Suddenly, I had an idea. A back massager! Connie would love that! They sold them at that gadget store here in the mall! I ducked out of the Victoria's secret and, glad to be out of there, nearly sprinted to the escalator that led downstairs to where I'd find Brookstone. Why hadn't I thought of this before! Gadget stores were my element! I wouldn't have to face spindly supermodels who made me feel like a drooling moron!
By the time I walked into Brookstone I had it all decided. I'd buy her a nice massager, wrap it up, and take it home. I could just imagine all the husband points a good back rub would get me.
I started looking for the massagers. To my surprise, there were quite a few to choose from. All of them had display models set out for you to try. The first one that I looked at was so large that I could hardly pick it up. It said "Heated Shiatsu massage, model XML" on the handle. It looked like some sort of Alien with a really lumpy head and two big red eyes. I wasn't sure what Shiatsu was, but there weren't any salespeople around to ask at that moment, so I hit the button that said "Heat" to see what it would do. The eyes lit up and immediately got warm. "Wow!" I thought. Then I hit the button that said "HI”.
The massager immediately became possessed of some evil spirit. It attacked me and started pummeling me mercilessly, vibrating so violently that I couldn't even let go of the handle. It didn't surprise me as much as, say, waking up to find a llama in my bed, but it did catch me off guard. I tried to defend myself with every martial arts trick I could think of, but the alien machine was just too good. By the time I finally got it shut off, I felt like I'd been dragged behind a Harley Davidson through a herd of buffalo. I'm still not sure what "Shiatsu massage" is, but I must have used a few similar words while I was being assaulted.
The store manager came over and said with a smile, "How do you like our new XML?"
"I won't…
I stopped at the florist on the way home from the mall and picked up a bouquet of flowers.
"What happened to you?" Connie said when I walked in the door, noting my disheveled appearance. "Nothing." I answered. "I got you some flowers. Want to go to dinner?"
She rolled her eyes and smiled that smile that always makes me feel like a love struck kid. "I'd love to!"
"Happy Birthday, Honey."
-- 
Chuck (woah@mission4me.com), February 07, 2002