I hate the mall.
I don't think there is a married man alive that doesn't get a sick feeling in his stomach when his wife says those infamous words to him, "Honey, I need to go to mall this weekend."
I, doesn't mean her by herself—no—it means WE are going to the damn mall, and there is not a force on this earth that will prevent it from happening.
I've done it so many times over the years I don't even quibble about it anymore. Are there other things I'd rather be doing? Most certainly, especially on a weekend, but I know better than to argue or say no. I did that only once and paid for it for almost three months.
First came the look, then the attitude, and finally the credit card bills. Years later I would kid my wife telling her to leave her credit cards on the counter and back away with her hands in the air. It didn't work back then, and it sure as hell doesn't work now. So you suck it up, smile, put on a pair of comfortable walking shoes, and take one for the team.
You know you're in deep shit when you get off at the mall exit and see traffic backed up for blocks just to get into the parking lot. I used to cut in and out of traffic thinking the sooner I got there the sooner we get to leave. Ha, that's a fallacy. The mall is open until nine at night and any woman worth her muster is going to do whatever is necessary to find that item she came to buy no matter how long it takes.
Another fact is that no woman wants to go to the mall alone. I think it has something to do with pack mentality. Since I've got two daughters there is no way my wife will go alone when she can have company. Unfortunately there are those times when our daughters are busy with other stuff and can't go with her, then she is more than willing take me along as her second choice. Other times, like today, I think I am there just to help carry the bags, sort of like the team packhorse. It's only those women still in the honeymoon stage of their relationship that will want her man as her first choice—something about breaking down his future resistance. And, if he ever wants sex again, he'll smile and follow her like a little puppy until she's ready to leave.
If a guy is smart he'll drop everyone off at the mall door, telling them he'll park the car and see them inside. That's worth at least a half hour, maybe even up to forty-five minutes especially if it's during the holiday season. She can still keep track of you by cell phone, but I've been known to tell her I turned it off for a while to save on my low battery. The problem is that excuse will work maybe once every couple of months and never during the holidays.
Truth be known, women really don't want with us with them, but we do serve some purpose. While they try on clothes we sit in a stupid chair the store puts outside the dressing room specifically for men to hold their wife's purse. You, along with all the other men, congregate around the outside of the dressing room waiting for our wives to come out and ask what we think. And let me tell you be very careful what you say, that's dangerous ground in and of itself.
I realized early on my and my wife's tastes in clothing are one hundred and eighty degrees apart. So, when she comes out and asks what I think it means how does it fit, not how it looks on her.
"Looks good, hon!" is my usual reply. To me everything looks good on her.
"Does it look too tight? You know I like a lot of room in my clothes."
You see, that's where we differ. Me, I like to see her body when I look at her, where she doesn't like to show her curves. I like her clothes just tight enough that I can see the outline of her ass and breasts. She usually wins unless one of our daughters can convince her otherwise.
A smart man tells the truth unless the woman says, "I could probably use a size larger, but they don't have it in stock." About then you say it fits her to a T because you know she really wants it, and hell, after she brings it home, washes it, and it shrinks, she's just going to return it anyway. It seems women return at least sixty percent of what they purchase, even if it's been previously worn.
After two hours and three stores later I make my move.
"I'm going to look for a pair of sandals. I'll have my cell on so just let me know which store you're in." My wife nods, my daughters ignore me but I'm finally free. I'd say, "Free at last, free at last, thank God, free at last" which might sound a little racist, but it fits. I aimlessly walk the mall looking at everything, looking for nothing. I spy the food court and make a beeline for it. I pick up a medium coffee at Starbucks and buy one of those Cinnabuns I'm not supposed to be eating because they're pure sugar. That's what my wife tells me, and she wouldn't lie, would she?
Looking down, I could probably stand to lose more than a couple of pounds, but since I don't plan on trying out for the Packers anytime soon I'll live with my little belly. Hell, I ride a Harley, and isn't that one of the requirements for owning one? But damn, those buns are too good to pass up.
Sitting at one of the tables I relax, sip my coffee, and try to eat that messy roll without it getting all over my mustache and beard—a hopeless endeavor. The napkin helps. Still I'm going to have to hit the restroom afterwards to get rid of the evidence on my facial hair. No way I'm going to give her a kiss and have her find cinnamon glaze on my mustache or breath.
With the evidence now in the pit of my stomach, I start to people watch. At forty-one I'm young enough to look, just not stupid enough to touch. I probably have at least an hour to aimlessly watch the crowd passing by me looking particularly at the females, which outnumber the men almost four to one.
After about twenty minutes I play a game with myself—which ones would I take the chance of sleeping with? They better be one fine piece of female flesh for me to risk my wife's wrath if she ever found out. So I watch and rate them.
A six, almost a seven, that one is probably an eight and would have scored higher if she'd do something about her red hair, just wasn't feeling the red. Average is what almost every one of them rate. There are all sizes and flavors out there walking in front of me for my inspection, they just don't know it. After a while I get out a small piece of paper and my pen and start keeping track. I list five columns, six through ten, and start categorizing them.
The majority of them are in the seven to seven and a half range. I am only grading those that are at least in their late twenties to around fifty. There were some hot younger ones, but I would feel like a pedophile looking at them in that way. I spend the next forty-five minutes keeping score.
Don't get me wrong, I see my share of eights and nines, but most of them are in uniform. You know, those women at the makeup and perfume counters, the ones that want to spray you when you walk by. I see two tens, and maybe a ten and a half, so does every other guy there as most follow them with their eyes even if they are with their wives or partners. And those women know they are hot shit, too.
I eye fuck one, watching her slowly meander right in front of me. Hell, I mentally undress her, take her to bed, and thank God for not striking me dead for what I want to do to her.
She sees me, and flashes a smile that lets me know what I was thinking is never going to happen. The guy she is with is dressed to the nines and looks oblivious to everything happening around him. He is probably rich and she's most likely his trophy wife or arm candy. Whatever, I think I gained at least three pounds eyeing her up.
From what I see most women are nothing more than average and after looking at the guys they are with, none of them are anything to write home about either. Everyone looks like they could stand to lose a good ten pounds and the way some people are dressed, you'd think they don't have any mirrors in their houses or they dressed in the dark. And that is giving them the benefit of the doubt.
If you were to ask a hundred people, I think you'd find that most guys would be satisfied with being average but certainly not the women. I watch them as they pass store windows looking at their reflection and making minor adjustments. When I sit outside dressing rooms, I watch one after another walk into the dressing room with an armful of clothes to try on. Big, small, young, old, they're all there hoping to enhance their looks, thinking the next dress, skirt, or blouse will make them look just a little bit better, satisfying their vanity and self image a bit when they look in the mirror. The majority will still look average no matter what they put on.
