Storymania - The Debunking The Dreaded Shopping Spree by Steven R Kravsow

The Debunking The Dreaded Shopping Spree
Steven R Kravsow

The English language has approximately 500,000 words, and these words, in and of themselves, are quite benign. In fact it can be said that each individual word is neutral. However, shuffle them together in infinite groupings and they can suddenly transform from that benign entity into words that evoke intense sensations. They can evoke fright or flight responses, make the blood run cold, raise the blood pressure, make the heart beat faster, and even congeal the marrow in a man’s bones.

The safe groupings might sound something like, "Isn’t that a cute little kitty," or "Wow, that is one hot car!" Or you can reshuffle them and make beads of sweat appear on a man’s brow and bring him to his knees. For instance, "Honey, come with me. I want to go clothes shopping!" The other day that dreaded combination was uttered to me, and my life changed.

I was headed into a black hole, a fearsome place where the laws of physics do not apply. Inside this hole time slows down, spatial disorientation occurs, tiny hands move through endless racks of clothes at the speed of light, and every moment seems like "Ground Hog Day."

As I wondered from rack to rack, from round reel to round reel, from display to display, I suddenly realized what makes men and women different. It is their basic approach to shopping. I am convinced that this has deep sociological insights. Let me explain.

Men are hunters and women are gatherers. So we go hunt for it, identify our prey, and track it down. But we are focused. If we are hunting for buffalo and we don’t find it, we don’t immediately shift to looking for wild boar thinking. "Oh, well, dear, I didn’t bag the buffalo but this wild boar will work out just as well." And so when a man shops for clothes, he goes with an idea in mind like, find that dress shirt, or pick out a tie, or snag a casual shirt with a nice print on it. If we need pants, they are either are dress, casual, or jeans.

But this doesn’t work with women at all. Women are gatherers. They forage. Their basic plan of attack is much broader in scope. They are like hyenas. They will attack a body and pick the carcass clean. And they are not choosey. If they were looking for, say, deer and a coyote or ground hog finds its way into their sites, that will do just fine. And so it is when women shop for clothes. They forage and hope for a miracle.

And our job? Why, to be the packhorse. "Honey, can you hold this for me, please?" Off comes the coat. Now it is roll up the sleeves and get to picking time. So you grab her coat and follow blindly from reel to reel as she shuffles through rack after rack of perfectly fine clothing faster that a Vegas black jack dealer.

Don’t try to help. You cannot possibly try to help in the hunting process. You are the one who carries the bow and quiver. You are the one that holds the musket and ball. But you are not the shooter. Try as you might, you will pick out the wrong color, the wrong size, or the wrong style.

So the forage begins. She heads to the signs that say "50% off-clearance." These words cause an adrenalin rush that will keep women going for hours on end. And even though we men are not able to choose one single outfit correctly, what they hold up is no better. Then the trick questions begin. "How about this sweetie," she asks. Alarm bells go off like school kids hearing the recess bell. You have to be careful here. A safe reply would be, "Well what do you think, honey?’ But we men are cursed with being honest so we make a face and reply, "Jeez, honey, what are you thinking!," evoking a death ray stare.

So since that isn’t working-the buffalo isn’t to be had, they more on to the tops, then the pants, and soon long dresses will take their turns as well. Yes women seem to have a system, flawed, but yet still a system. As they finish a rack or a reel, they seem to mentally assign it a color code. Green means that it has yet to be worked over, yellow is one that has been scoured but has not yet been ruled out, and red is for the racks that have been rendered useless. At face value this seems like a clever system, but I said it was flawed. For even though they have been assigned mental colors, this does not mean that a woman is finished with them. Oh, no, much later, after the dressing room torture has been put to bed, they will go back one more time to see if, somehow, anything has been missed or that a miracle has occurred and something previously unseen has now found itself in the sunlight.

While all this hell is going on, we men get sympathy looks from the women staff. But this too needs decoding. There is a definite ratio that exists between the amount of sympathy a man can generate and the woman’s age. Young women don’t care. They give off a body language that says, "Get over it fellow. This is who we are and this is what we do. Got any problems with that?" But older women are kinder. They have the benefit of long experience in the shopping wars. They recognize a man’s "thousand year stare" and offer a wink or a passing word of encouragement. Occasionally they will even squeeze a man’s shoulder in a gesture that says, "Yes, I know we are tough but we still love you."

Today an older clerk told me to hang in there. I realized at once what was need for that to happen. Women’s retail stores should all have buffets with free drinks, and perhaps a TV playing an endless loop of ESPN. That would definitely ease our pain.

So after enduring all the reels and racks and displays, it is now time for the woman to head to the dressing room. You follow along, still carrying her coat and scarf, and even more awful, an occasional pocketbook. In the other arm you have 23 garments of all sizes, shapes, and descriptions. Of course the attendant will only allow you to take 6 garments inside so who gets to hold and watch the other 17? Of course. Us.

Now you can only wait as you become aware of the Musak playing. Oldies, easy listening favorites, recycled instrumentals, and even Frank Sinatra. Yup, that’s right, imagine Frank Sinatra reduced to singing on a Musak loop. "It’s quarter to three. There’s no one else in the bar but you and me. So hurry up, Joe. I’ve got a story I want you to know…"

Inside she does battle with an assortment of tops, bottoms, and anything in between. Now men stray strictly to their sizes but here again, women are different. They do a perverse interpretation of Cinderella’s evil sisters squeezing into a glass slipper. It might be just right, but that is too easy. So they include sizes that are too small and too large. "You don’t understand honey, all the sizes differ from maker to maker. And the sizes are truer the more money you spend." I always wondered what that meant. Does that mean that the more expensive the garment, they better it fits, or does it mean that a metamorphosis somehow takes place so that the sizes change the more you collectively spend?

Al the while sounds emanate from the dressing rooms as women grunt and grown as they try on their foraged selections. Occasional curses can be heard from deep inside the bowels of these places. All a man can do is wait, settle into a chair, maybe catch a quick catnap, and above all, avoid looking into a dressing room at the wrong time.

Soon the dressing room door opens a crack and a hand lurches out holding 3 disheveled garments. "Honey, can you take these and give me some more?" Yes your sentence is not completed, your crime is not punished enough, and the ordeal goes on a bit longer.

After what seems like hours, she finally emerges with 3 of the 23 original items, grins with triumph and satisfaction and proclaims, "I’ll take these honey!" Your raise your eyes to the heavens and thank God for your deliverance. But just then, she pulls another trick out of her bag. "Hold on a second, honey, while I check things out once more." And with those frightening words, she is off, back to the round reels and racks and displays. Why? Because, now, after all that has passed since you entered this black hole, she wants to be sure that nothing was missed. Remember, I said before that those color-coded fixtures were not absolutes. In this universe, Einstein’s theory of relativity takes on a whole new meaning.

At last you head for the checkout counter where the same clerk what reminded you of your place in this universe is ready to take her money. Oh, but not just yet. For you see, the store people have their own game. Just in front of the registers are racks of costume jewelry and of course they must be perused. You have reached the time equivalent of absolute zero, in which all molecules stop and all life is suspended. She hands the clerk some coupons and is immediately informed that they are no long good. Of course, what was she thinking? So she roots around for the charge card and finally the transaction is complete. Now you can finally turn and head towards the door, ready to escape the black hole, having done the only thing to break its grip-spend money.

"Look at how much money I saved, sweetheart!" she revels. "I know that I can make something out of these things?"

But even before the dust has settled and the ink dries on the register receipts, as she heads towards the door and the fresh air outside, she pauses, tilts her head and says, "So now sweetheart, we have to go get me some shoes!"