A few days ago I went to a local store that specializes in home décor. It wasn’t my idea, believe me. My wife convinced me that it was in my best interest to go. It’s easy to act enthusiastic about anything when your wife’s happiness is at stake – and your right to sleep in your own bed.
It was an interesting experience to say the least. I have never seen so much raffia, so much fake greenery, so much fluff. And I have never seen so many ceramic roosters in one place. Let me amend that: ever. And I don’t even want to know who is buying the fake rocks. Why would you buy fake rocks when the authentic stuff is literally as cheap as dirt? I know I may never fully understand the principles of proper home decorating, but things like that make me not want to even try.
But while my wife was perusing the piles of cheap stuff sold at designer prices (discount store my eye), I couldn’t help but observe a few interesting things about my fellow customers. Almost everyone who walked through the front door was in pairs, man and woman, presumably husband and wife.
Every couple began to follow a very specific pattern. The woman’s eyes would immediately light up; the man’s would blink in utter astonishment that there were that many types of squirrel statues in the world. Then the woman would set off eagerly into the maze of aisles with the man tagging along reluctantly.
Since the women were often buzzing around from display to display the men were left to push the shopping cart along. Often they were clutching the handle in a white-knuckle grip that suggested they were afraid of getting swept away in a sea of sphagnum moss and fake tulips, becoming lost to the masculine world forever. It was probably mixed with a distinct panic that somebody from work would see them there.
The astonishment and apprehension would eventually subside as they spent more and more time trying to follow their wives through the aisles. Many men took to parking their carts at the end of an aisle and waiting for their wives to deposit things as they went by in a blur of glassware- and wall clock-inspired excitement.
Some men began to congregate at certain points and strike up conversations about football and monster trucks in order to repel the overwhelming waves of estrogen that were swirling among the bamboo shoots and angel figurines. They would only look away long enough to ask why in the world their wives were loading the cart with fake rocks when they came free outside the confines of the store.
“Poor guys,” I said to myself as the sound of fake rocks being dumped into my cart brought me out of observation mode. “Honey, I think I’m just gonna wait over there while you get your stuff.”
“No, I can’t be running back and forth. I need you to follow me. And try to keep up better; you’ve been falling behind. I had to carry that porcelain dolphin down three aisles just to find you.”
“Sorry, the cart got caught on some fake rhododendron leaves that were sticking out of the topiary display. Let’s hurry and get out of here before somebody I know spots us.”
“Then you’ll have to do a better job of keeping up to me. And don’t forget, we still have to go to the fabric store after this.”
“Yes dear.”
