Sunday, April 22, 2012
I've never been much of a shopper. As a boy, I sometimes had to tag along with my mother and grandmother when they went "downtown" to shop in Enid, Oklahoma, occasions that called for dressing up (which I've always hated). My mom and grandma looked as if they were going to church--hats, gloves, their Sunday dresses. Must have been pleasant for them in that prairie furnace of a town.
I shopped (and shop) like my dad: wham bam. When I was teaching, I bought all my clothes for the coming school year a day or so before classes started. Did it all--shoes, socks, underwear, pants, shirts, blazer--in about ten minutes. Somewhere, Dad is smiling.
He wasn't the most patient shopper, either. Later on, weary of it all, he would sit out in the car in the parking lot and stare while Mom was inside. Joyce has sometimes asked me if I'd like to wait in the car, but I'm not quite there yet. A significant part of my brain very much wants to; the other part (the part that considers consequences) issues a veto. And off I go ...
Last night, for example, on the way to see The Hunger Games, we made a stop at a department store. Joyce needs some new black shoes. I wandered around in the men's area looking at belts and wallets. Called my mom and chatted a bit. (Asked her if she was proud of me, not being out in the parking lot. She was not.) Then drifted over to the shoe department where ... well ... you can imagine ...
Later, shoeless, on the way out I commented that some entrepreneur (do any of you know that word? are you as sick of it as I am?) ought to find a more appealing way to attract American shopping couples. I proposed a new line of stores--SHOES & GUNS.
While Joyce shopped for the black pumps, I could, you know, look for a new pump-action shotgun, maybe pick out a derringer for those days when I have to dress up.