As the song goes, shoppers rush home with their treasures. Jim Holleran was hustling to watch the Buffalo Bills game.
I tried not to show any desperation, but three weeks before Christmas I was cornered.
What do you buy for the spouse who seemingly has everything she needs, who doesn’t seek material things like flashy jewelry, trendy cars or designer clothes?
When my editor asked if I wanted to go shopping, I repeated a familiar phrase from 41 years ago: “I do.’’
Despite my status as a long-suffering husband with a martyr complex, perhaps I’d get lucky and stumble upon an inspiration. Maybe an electronic gadget. Perhaps a pickleball accessory. Or a captivating game.
They were my best take on fresh ideas. I definitely knew what was O-U-T. Earrings were a no-no. Relied on that gift too often. Although I can be a sexist jerk, I knew enough to skip the kitchen gadgets, personalized coffee mugs and printed T-shirts identifying me as a trophy husband.
By coincidence, just before we left for the store, a Facebook video had reappeared in which I lamented to a friend how we were stuck for Christmas ideas and wondered if anyone online could send us hints or fresh ideas. It didn’t work then; why bother again this year?
So off I trudged, the dutiful husband with the lousy shopping gene.
I hit a nadir early in our marriage a couple of months after Claire Eileen was born. I knew nothing about department store layouts but lamely reasoned that since Mary was a mother, I should shop in the Misses section. On Christmas morning, she opened a box and pulled out what could be best described as a print pup tent.
It was like I was prepping her for an audition for The Biggest Loser. This thing could have shrouded the Goodyear blimp. I pleaded ignorance; the marriage survived.
This year’s expedition started typically. Mary drove, I spent too much time in the car playing Words With Friends and not concentrating on the conversation. I think I surpassed three “whadya says’’ before we reached our destination.
These outings highlight the basic differences between the genders. Men have a target and go to buy. Efficient use of time. Clearance racks. Women prefer to meander and shop. Absorb and appreciate. Examine colors and pricetags. Men tweak; women complain about a lack of patience. This has been going on since Adam and Eve donned fig leaves.
I went with Mary’s Christmas gift(s) in mind but she immediately steered me to a display of men’s quarter-zips. I capitulated. “Make it 2XL.’’
I didn’t know I needed a black belt but I learned mine was looking “spotty’’ so we bought a new one.
“Wrap’em up for Christmas,’’ I said. “I don’t need them but I will act surprised in front of the grandchildren.’’
The next stop was the luggage section, which I deemed practical because Mary’s distinctive purple and pink carry-on bag had torn on our last trip.
“Whatever you choose, make sure we can spot it on the luggage carousel at the airport,’’ said Mr. Practicality, eschewing for one instance the moniker of Mr. Wonderful.
After what seemed like too many pricetag comparisons, Mary picked a noticeable teal blue bag. “Great! I’ll wrap it up for Christmas. Ready to go home?’’
Perhaps I’m the dumbest guy in North America. It took one eyeroll, then we were headed in another direction. We certainly were not finished.
We happened across a bin of pillows marked down to $5 each. We took five, all destined as a donation for Sleep In Heavenly Peace, our volunteer organization that builds and installs beds for vulnerable children.
We still had to navigate the cashiers’ gauntlet. We passed the disgruntled man in hoodie, ball cap and Carhartt jacket. I mused that we fellow Mr. Wonderfuls should have a secret handshake. Then a chatty lady made small talk and used the same line three times: “It is what it is.’’ I never determined what “it’’ was. I blamed my shopping ineptitude.
The cashiers’ aisle snakes past displays of candy, chocolates, kitchen gadgets, playing cards, spot removers and stuffed animals, urging you to make an impulse purchase. We didn’t escape.
“You can wrap this up for me,” Mary said, handing me a box of air fryer recipes.
“We don’t have an air fryer,” I protested.
“Yes we do. You just can’t bend down that far to see it on the bottom shelf.’’
Alas, I was wrong again.
That’s when the light bulb – probably only 20 watts – illuminated in my brain. I knew what to buy her for Christmas. But like a TV whodunit, I can’t include the ending. It will spoil the surprise. Be assured I’m not going to the Misses section.
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/
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