As a shopper, it’s certain I’ll be getting a lump of coal

    Oh, he’s making a list,
   And and he’s checking it twice
   He’s gonna find out who’s naughty or nice

    Apparently, I made the naughty list. The word did not come down from the North Pole or The Elf on the Shelf. Not even three spirits in the night. No, I was informed by a higher power – my spouse.

    I suggested we go Christmas shopping together. I get a kick out of ambling through clearance aisles and discount stores to find stocking stuffers and eclectic gifts for my children and friends. It’s as much a litmus test of consumerism and people watching as it is shopping. This gets me in the Christmas spirit.

    When I offered to hop in the car for Round 2, a decision was delivered in no uncertain terms.

   “I’m done with you,’’ said my editor of 40-plus years.

     “What? I went to several stores the other day. I thought this was a chance to do something together now that you’re retired. You’re kidding me, right?’’

   “It was no fun. ‘Oh, I would never buy this. Oh, take a picture of this.  Can you believe the price of this?’ You’re never serious.’’

  “Huh?’’

 “I’m not sarcastic; I’m truthful. You were in your mocking mood.’’

   This exchange embodies the difference between men and women, in general. I’m not a shopper. I don’t need to visit three stores to decide on one item. I’m a buyer. See it, touch it, draw out the debit card quicker than Chuck Connors, The Rifleman.

   Imagine the Homo erectus couple 5,000 years ago. She wants to go Christmas shopping (work with me) and he is working on a cave painting near a cozy fire. He (the buyer) is willing to go hunting; she (the shopper) insists on gathering, roaming and gathering.

   That resembles our recent shopping trip, starting in the pricey, trendy gift shop. Anything with a Buffalo Bills logo usually flies off the shelves. Not for this guy.

   A tumbler with the Bills logo (my sportswriting colleagues once dubbed it “The Cockroach’’) sold for $29. Betcha it’s cheaper at a second-hand store. Next to the tumbler hung a Bills sweatshirt. I figured it was expensive, maybe $70. When I turned over the pricetag, I thought I had developed a cataract. Did it really show $130?

    The cardinal supporting a wind chime caught my eye. My Aunt Lois is fond of saying that cardinals are a sign from God. Not even the Lord would pay $30 for a plastic cardinal.

   The display of Taylor Swift merchandise commanded its own table. The clerk told me it was the most lucrative table in the store, “that it makes a million.’’ Sounds almost as potent as grossing $2 billion from the Eras Tour. There was a sticker book, Travis Kelce snapshot memoir, coloring book, crochet set, calendar and T-shirts.

   “Who buys all this stuff?’’ I asked the clerk.

    “Often, it’s guys your age with their granddaughters.’’

    I swallowed hard as we moved to the nearby craft store. Mrs. Wonderful searched for picture frames; I hunted for a bathroom. When I spotted a corner of a sign and the block letters “ROOM,’’ I put my head down and quickened my pace. Turns out it was a “CLASSROOM.’’ Man, once management lures you into the store, it knows how to keep you.

   I felt more comfortable at the big box store where I could search for giant candy bars or earbuds for stockings. I walked past the T-shirts (Expectant Mother: Under Construction with a huge arrow intended for a baby bump) and signs (Fart Zone – Enter At Your Own Risk). They were mildly humorous, but nothing you want to wear in public.

    “Hold this up,’’ Mrs. Wonderful insisted. It was a Grinch fleece.

     “This fits you!’’

     “So it’s a 2XL?’’

   “No, but you’re grinchy.’’

  Moving on, we reached the Five Below outlet. I spotted the Holy Grail of this excursion. My old work partner, Finn, was a tennis aficionado. From a bin, I plucked a giant tennis ball. Turns out, Finn loves it and promises to take it to tournaments to collect autographs. Mission accomplished.

   Just a hunch, I won’t be accompanying Herself for post-Christmas returns. Hallelujah.

        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/