Consider that men are hunters, while women are gatherers. A man needs a pair of jeans? At 10 am, he marches into the jeans shop, tries on a pair, finds that it fits, pays, then returns home by 10:30 am. A woman will enter a jeans shop at 11 am, notice the display items on her right, feel the texture of each garment, review the price tag, talk with a salesperson about upcoming styles, mosey over to the next display, check out the clearance rack, perhaps strike up a conversation with another shopper, compare and contrast competing items and, eventually, purchase the jeans, along with other newly discovered but much needed dry goods, then arrive home by 3 pm.
Our quaint little village is a charming tourist attraction. During the summer months, the town swells and fills with vacationers frequenting the local bed and breakfasts, dining at the tiny bistros, walking by the docks, or bicycling along sun dappled paths. I too happily roam the streets with a vacationing girlfriend, merrily chatting away while we slurp ice cream, wander in and out of each shop, say hello to the proprietor, peruse the inventory, mingle with local friends, then exit the town a few hours later, happier for the experience.
But I digress, back to the man. What is even worse for a man than shopping? Can there be anything even more agonizing than shopping? Yes. Yes, Virginia, there is something worse than shopping. It is waiting, waiting, waiting, while his wife shops. This is penance for some heinous sin committed in a previous lifetime.
While sauntering around the village, I point out the scores of men sitting staring in blinding agony while their wives shop and explain to my girlfriend that the bench outside each retail establishment is referred to as the “dead husbands bench” — by the time a woman is done shopping her husband could have died on the bench and no one would have noticed. Of course if he keeled over or if his body leaned up against another equally unhappy husband, there might be a slight uptick in a one sided conversation but otherwise no one would be the wiser. Death due to inertia. The obits are full of them: “He died while waiting. . . . “
Occasionally observing a poor man’s palpable agony; hunched over, chin on hand, leg jerking up and down, surrounded by previously purchased bags, smart phone contents sliding up and down at a perilous rate and, taking pity on the poor soul, I have pointed to the innocuous local bar and suggested to this sad sad man that he might be more comfortable in there, perched on a stool, quaffing a frosty ale. While the thought oftentimes brings a quick and wistful smile, the underlying rueful sentiment is that there would be hell to pay afterwards so back he sits, face and shoulders sagging, to wait and wait and wait.
The only men who don’t seem to mind huddling outside shop doorways are the young ones; in town for the weekend with a happy girlfriend, who is merrily shopping in each and every store, while the young swain patiently waits, holding her bags, because he knows that tonight in their little room, surrounded by her new purchases, there will be a happy ending.
