* * *It must have been the super-sized lunchtime margarita that made me so magnanimous, so sloppy silly with my words, but at least I was sober enough to regret them almost as soon as they came spilling out of my mouth: "Honey bunny, since we're right next door to Dillard's, do you mind if we pop in quickly so I can check out the Fryes?"
S.B. shrugged. He'd never been to the Dillard's shoe department before. Not just a shrine to which I make frequent pilgrimages, but My Church. Seriously. Anyone who doesn't think it's possible to speak to Jesus during normal working hours and get an answer has yet to attend a 75 percent off Dillard's shoe sale. So I was a little nervous about S.B. entering my other world.
Sure enough, as soon as we got there, I knew I should never have asked. Not that S.B. fidgeted or rolled his eyes or tugged at his collar or anything like that. It's just that he looked so out of place, so wrong, sitting there all politely stoic among all the shiny new shoes and spiky heels and decorous sales folks who have perfected the art of the hushed tone.
Because S.B. looked so wrong, so out of place, I of course couldn't enjoy myself, couldn't give the merchandise the proper consideration it deserved and so all I could manage was a hasty pass at a pair of Fryes for fit before high tailing it out of there for the nearest Sportsman's Warehouse. Had I not acted as quickly as I had, most likely S.B.'s alpha presence would have sucked all the atmosphere from the building, leaving me and the other women in attendance with the dawning sense that maybe, just maybe, lusting after a neon pink pair of Vincent Caputo snakeskin cage pumps with hammered silvertone buckles might not be all that normal after all.
So I got us out of there and we never spoke of it again.
So, listen. All you ladies who drag your men shopping with you? Unless he's gay? Stop it. They don't like it. In fact, not only do they not like it, they can't handle it. You ask your girlfriend, "Do these jeans make my butt look fat?" you'll get an honest answer. Or at least one so superlatively shined on that, hell, it doesn't really matter what the truth is.
Ask your guy? All you're doing is sending his brain into response overload, the equivalent of turning his amplifier up to eleven, and what you'll get is not a helpful answer, but a blubbering mass of stammers so inconclusive, you'll likely go all girly girl on his ass and starting thinking he no longer finds you attractive and just whose butt does he think looks good anyway and then you'll go home and give him the silent treatment and he'll slink off to play Hitman on his Xbox and before you know it, you're sending two more divorce lawyer's children to Harvard.