In Over My Head

Since I am away from home so much, I really try to make to the most of our family time together. It doesn’t matter what we do, whether it’s sitting around the house watching television, playing a game, or going out to eat, I don’t take it for granted. I know that every moment is precious. As the girls get older, I know that those moments will be increasingly rare, and eventually I will only have the memories.

That being said, and with all the love in the world for my wife and three daughters, let me shift gears a bit and say that taking them shopping is essentially a torture that even Dick Cheney would deem too excessive. Before you think I’m being cheap and just hate spending money on my beautiful and deserving family, I can honestly say that is definitely not the case. If anything, I am generous to a fault. I understand they need clothing, and I want them to have nice things. I just don’t understand why I need to be there when they are purchased.

I don’t mind shopping. In fact, I believe I am a pretty good shopper. When I shop for clothes, I generally know what I am looking for and which stores have them. I go directly to the area where that product is held and search for a suitably priced, appropriately fitting garment. It’s a fairly straightforward course of action.

I have experienced shopping with my wife for over twenty years, and amazingly we are still married. There have been times when we’ve walked into a store, wandered into the women’s clothing section, and with one quick glance at the racks, she says “they don’t have anything.” Then we leave.

I didn’t understand it twenty years ago and I don’t understand it now. Either she has supernatural powers (and I don’t doubt that she does, because she often puts a spell on me) which somehow allows her to know when the right apparel is within range, or she isn’t really interested in purchasing clothes. The act of “shopping” might be a subterfuge designed to get me out of the house and involved in some form of exercise. She’s sneaky and I wouldn’t put it past her.

This past weekend I found myself involved in a quest for swimsuits. I should know better, because it’s always an exercise in futility and frustration, but they should also know better than to invite me and expect practical assistance. From past experience, they should know that all advice I provide is useless and will be quickly discarded. From a man’s point of view there are two types of women’s swimsuits: those that we might enjoy seeing on strangers at the beach and those that we would allow our daughters to wear. Trying to find a happy medium is like discussing politics at a family dinner…everyone else is right, and I’m an idiot.

When we arrived at the store, I was given the assignment to find a swimsuit for our ten year old, which I think was a ploy to get me out of the way for a while. Like I said earlier, men shop differently than women. I do not look at styles or prices first, I look for sizes. I scan the top of the hangers for the appropriate size and then take a quick look at the style. If it’s not made of two strings and an inch of cloth, then I look closer for specific design requirements. If I think it’s worthy of a second opinion, I hold it up and get Connie’s attention. 9 times out of ten she gives me a “you’ve got to be kidding” look and shakes her head. The tenth time she rolls her eyes and turns her back on me. It’s not a very fruitful system, but it keeps me busy.

If there were 15 racks of swimsuits and 14 of them were marked “clearance sale,” it is pretty well guaranteed that the only apparel chosen would be on rack #15. It’s not intentional, and I give the girls full credit for trying, but somehow it always works out that the perfect blend of style, fit and color can only be found on that one rack. By this point I am worn down and ready to go. The thought of searching more stores for cheaper suits has negative appeal to me. I could think of ten things I don’t like to do that I’d rather be doing than spending more time looking for swimwear.

I insist that they try them on and if they fit, I will buy them. I tell them not to look at the price and just get something. Life is too short.

If only it were that simple.

Women’s fitting rooms always seem to be situated in the lingerie section. It’s not the most comfortable feeling for a man to be left standing amongst racks of bras and panties, trying to look like you belong while women shoppers look at you with a mix of concern and confusion. One lady slid her hand inside her purse, probably to grip tightly to her small can of mace. I’ve learned not to make sudden movements.

The reason I must stay close to the fitting rooms is because my job at this point is “runner.” If a suit is well liked, but not quite fitting the way they want (and they never do), I am to return to the racks and find the adjusted size. This is something even I cannot screw up. The answers are simple, “yes, they have the size you requested and here it is,” or “no, they don’t have that size.” Occasionally I may be asked for an opinion on how a particular suit looks, but I think they only do this to make me feel involved in the process, because I’ve never noticed that my judgment is taken into consideration at all.

Of course, I’m looking at all of this from a much simpler view point. Guys can just go buy a shirt, a pair of pants, or a pair of swim trunks, and it’s not a big deal. We don’t have the pressure that women have on them. Other men don’t look at us and turn up their nose. We don’t have to worry about how much skin to show or not to show. There are a thousand considerations on any single clothing purchase processing in the mind of a woman, and I can’t seem to comprehend any one of them.

The biggest problem I have is that I think my girls look good in almost anything. I remind them that when they smile, no one will be looking at their clothing. It’s an argument that I never win, but I keep trying. I also remind them that a great time for them to shop is when I’m away on travel. I promise them that I won’t feel left out and they are welcome to use my bank card to pay for it. It’s much less frustrating for all of us.