I tell ya, if I didn't have the pictures, I wouldn't believe me either. Things like that just don't happen to middle-aged schlubs like me. But it did, and I've got the proof.

It was a week ago Saturday. Laura wanted to go to the mall. Specifically, she wanted to go clothes shopping. For both of us.

Now I've gotta admit, that wasn't entirely a bad idea. All that working out last spring meant that my pants were a bit loose. Well, maybe not that loose, but I'd ripped my best pair of Dockers changing a tire about three weeks back. Laura had told me to call AAA, but what kind of man can't change a tire? I may not be a young stud anymore, but I'm not helpless. So I needed pants, and maybe a shirt or two, and of course I hadn't been to the bookstore in ages...

The problem was, Laura's own list was huge. I didn't discover this small fact until we were at the mall, of course, when she started rattling it off. A new dress. A skirt. A blouse. Shoes of two different types. A dozen other things.

Anyway, you know what those trips are like. I had my stuff in half an hour, and then spent the rest of the day trailing her around, holding her purse while she tried stuff on. And then holding her bags. And then more bags.

Of course, when I suggested that maybe I should go check out the bookstore and then meet her in the food court, well, she said she just had to get my opinion. Ha! Like she asked for it more than twice. She'd gather up enough clothes to outfit an army and find a clerk to hustle her into a dressing room. Then, after a wait that made eternity look like a short church sermon, she'd come out claiming none looked right. Or she'd declare one was perfect and ask for my credit card. Buyer and bearer, I knew my role.

That role didn't change through three department stores, six boutiques, and four shoe stores. Just when I thought we were finally done, we strolled by Victoria's Secret.

"Oh," Laura said, "I need to get some new bras. Let's go inside."

Now if the phrase "new bras" doesn't strike fear into you, you haven't been alive long enough. Nothing is worse than bra shopping with a woman. Particularly a middle-aged woman who, well, let's just say she's not going to be a threat to Elle Macpherson anytime soon. Yeah, when you're a young guy, it sounds sexy. But as an old guy, ya know better. This bra doesn't fit right. That one pinches. That style doesn't flatter her. The lace on this one is too scratchy. "Sexy" is trampled under a herd of little complaints, none of which can escape your ears.

But as a dutiful husband, I knew the magic words: "Yes, dear." So I was soon standing outside of yet another hall to the changing rooms.

This time, I was grateful for all the packages. One look and it was clear I wasn't a perv trying to peek at women as they changed. Only a husband would have sacks surrounding his feet as he leaned against the wall. I not only looked nonchalant, I even managed to look bored.

Of course, I wasn't entirely bored. I may be fifty-four, but I've still got a pulse, and there were a couple of fine ladies in that store. One clerk wore a tight skirt and clingy blouse, which I'm sure helped her sales. Two of the women customers weren't bad either.

The younger of the two caught my eye. Slim with dark hair, she wore a skirt barely too long to be called a mini. I watched as she sashayed from rack to rack, pulling off teddies and cammies and holding them up for her boyfriend. He was a delinquent if I ever saw one, in his baggy pants and torn concert T-shirt. He'd grunt and then look nervously around, as if it had somehow become a crime to stand in a store. She'd giggle and move onto the next rack, wending her way past bra displays and tables of panties. Caught in her tow, he kept glancing back toward the entrance, as if worried his mother might suddenly appear.

Who did appear was the attractive clerk. Knifing through the store, she intercepted the young couple about ten feet away from me, doing the polite but firm inquiry, "Do you need any assistance?"

The guy hung his head, but the girl yanked two teddies off a nearby rack, said something I didn't hear, and looked my way. Well, toward the changing rooms, really, but the way her eyes widened when she saw me, it took me a second to figure it out. Particularly when she grinned, her pearly whites flashing brilliant across the room.

The clerk led them over, brandishing her dressing room key. The brunette raised her eyebrows in a silent "hello" as they passed me. At a scowl from the clerk, the boyfriend peeled off and assumed a station leaning on the opposite wall. The clerk unlocked a dressing room and the brunette disappeared inside.

The boyfriend, well, he nervously watched the clerk return to the main store, but then his eyes focused back on the dressing room. He stared, really, which couldn't help but raise my curiosity. I shifted so I could follow his gaze, doing my best not to rustle the packages at my feet. It didn't matter because he didn't seem to care. He just continued to crane his head, like a dog waiting for his master's return.

For which he was rewarded. The changing room door slowly opened. Then the brunette's head poked around the corner. She looked a question at him, but he just froze. Then he tore his gaze away from her to look into the main store.