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.
That was a preview of A Mall Tale. To read the rest purchase the book.