After 39 years, a husband still learns fashion basics

 Five-hour car rides can unlock a lot of sentiments that the average husband never comprehends, even 39-plus years after the trip to the altar and the reverent “I do.’’

   Somewhere between Erie, Pa., and Buffalo, we were conducting the post-mortem on the three-day Christmas visit with Herself’s parents, noting how the nieces and nephews have grown into effective adults. We touched on the joy that our 10-month-old granddaughter had spread among the clan. Lastly, we recalled how the nieces were thrilled with the lighted, hand-held makeup mirrors, prompting one to say: “Aunt Mary, you always find the best gifts.’’

   That’s when I got ahead of myself.

   “I was really happy with the shirts I picked out for you. I thought the Doylestown Chipps shirt was a real find.’’

    I was crowing a little over the T-shirt from her former high school. The polyester-nylon blend wicks away moisture from your skin. I found one without an offensive image of a Native American. That’s when Mary flipped the field with the skill of an NFL punter.

    “Well, it’s too small,’’ she began. “You never buy a woman a white shirt. Colors are less noticeable. White makes you look fat.’’

   I felt like I failed on fourth-and-goal from the 1-yard line, and she quick-kicked to the opposite goal line. This seemed like visits from the Failed Shopping ghosts of Christmases past.

   I could never live down the rookie mistake of going to the “Mrs.’’  section of Macy’s 30 years ago, equating “Mrs.’’ with Married. I picked out what could best be described as a print, pop-up tent. Don’t laugh too hard. I repeated the mistake last year, plucking two sweaters from the rack and failing to look at the wall behind me for the “Plus Size’’ sign. The look on Christmas morning could have paused fighting in the Middle East.

   Women don’t realize the effort their husbands put into Christmas shopping. Don’t be fooled by how we march into a store, find what we want, then buzz through the checkout. Women are shoppers; men are buyers. The time difference is tremendous. This is embedded way beyond our marrow, down in our chromosomes.

    We consult with each other too. It starts midsummer, when we are waiting on a tee box. Perhaps it is in line at the grocery store or the bleachers of a basketball game. Maybe we strike up a conversation in the lobby of a doctor’s office. We all whisper the same thing: “What are you getting your wife for Christmas?’’

   We are hoping to mine some nugget that will serve as a currency with our spouses and raise our game. The lame alternative is to buy for ourselves, wrap the gift, then act surprised in front of the children on Christmas morning.

   “Still, you had to be happy with pickleball T-shirt from Dinkers?’’ I offered. “I picked it up on behalf of Katie (she doesn’t drive).’’

    Ooops, re-read the paragraph on white shirts.

  

 The situation was made worse when we examined Mary’s side of the balance sheet. She presented two quarter-zips, a bestseller from Liz Cheney and a Sleep In Heavenly Peace hoodie.

   “I seem to hit home runs,’’ she said matter-of-factly.

  “If you’re hitting home runs, what am I doing?’’

   “You’re like stuck in Triple-A.’’

    My gift of homemade peanut brittle from the local farm store was deemed “A-plus.’’ Phew. Thanks for acknowledging that.

    “You know Mary,’’ I said I was starting to feel like I went Christmas shopping with an unreformed Grinch, like a bit of a failure.’’

          Then I consoled myself with the closing scene from “It’s A Wonderful Life.’’ George Bailey opens his gift – Mark Twain’s “Tom Sawyer’’ — from his guardian angel, Clarence Odbody, and reads the inscription: “Remember, no man is a failure who has friends.”

    Just then, we pulled up to a fast-food drive-through window, when I lamented, “Don’t even say it. I will continue to carry this family. I know you need my debit card.’’

   “Yes,’’ Herself said without a pause. “Don’t be a failure again.’’  

                  Morristown native Jim Holleran is a retired teacher and sports editor from Rochester. Reach him at jimholleran29@gmail.com or view past columns under “Reflections of River Rat’’ at https://hollerangetsitwrite.com/blog/